Death Through the Looking Glass (19 page)

The year before, perched on a swaying ladder over the second story of his house, he had realized that the added years had brought him vertigo. He had laughed at himself as an ex-ranger, once used to scrambling down sheer cliffs and parachuting from aircraft, now developing such an unreasonable fear of heights.

How in the hell had he been talked into taking a ride in this ridiculous vehicle?

The plane came directly from the east, and he shaded his eyes to look toward the rising sun. Intermittently he could see it clearly—a brightly painted craft. It waggled its wings and then changed course to head out over the sound.

A small plume of black smoke came from the engine cowling, and the plane nosed down in a power dive toward the water.

My God! It was going to hit! As he leaned toward the diving plane he felt the basket tip precariously under his shifting weight.

The plane dove into the water and was immediately lost from sight under the whitecaps of the sound.

“Get me down from here! I saw it! I saw it!”

He saw Lyon leave the cab of the truck and look toward him. “Pull the white line. And for God's sake not the red one!”

He carefully avoided the red line as he reached gingerly toward the other rope. He gave it a hesitant tug and then looked up at the apex of the envelope to see the panel move aside. As hot air escaped into the atmosphere, the balloon settled gently to the ground.

“So, what did you see?” Damon asked.

The balloon bobbed on the ground as Rocco dropped over the side. “I saw an airplane that looked like Giles's fly out of the sun and then dive into the water.” He turned to Lyon. “How did you arrange it?”

Lyon gestured toward the rear of the truck. “We can do it again, if you'd like.”

Rocco swept back the tarpaulin from the truck bed to reveal another exact replica of the Giles plane—with a three-foot wingspan. “It's a God damn toy.”

“The radio control's in the cab.”

“We've begun to experiment with them at the factory,” Damon said. “But I would imagine that Lyon already knows that.”

Rocco held the radio-controlled plane in one hand. “Damn it! I saw an airplane up there!”

“You saw what you expected to see.”

“Cut the riddles.”

“What an object appears to be and where it is seen depend on each other. You and I, Rocco, saw a plane in the air over the water, with no reference point of known size. We perceived an aircraft of familiar size. Let me ask you how far away you thought the plane was when it went down.”

“A couple of thousand yards.”

“Closer to a couple of hundred feet.”

“That's impossible!”

“Elementary laws of the relationship between object, image and visual experience,” Damon said didactically. “If the object is of giant size, it will appear nearer; if it's a miniature, it will seem farther away.”

“An optical illusion?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Lyon said. “And it worked. On the morning of my birthday, Bea gave me the new gondola. It was a surprise to no one except me. Everyone knew that I couldn't resist an early-morning flight.”

“It is the best time to launch, isn't it?” Damon asked.

“When I saw a uniquely painted plane come out of the sun, I assumed it was Tom Giles, and I kept that assumption.”

“The engine was on fire; I saw the smoke.”

“So did I. It's easy enough to rig. Two pellets placed under the engine cowling that melt after sufficient heat application.”

“Then Tom Giles was murdered that night?”

“And the body was taken to the real plane, parked in back of Damon's toy company.”

“Flown into the water, and the killer swam ashore.”

“An inflatable raft, actually,” Damon said. Rocco and Lyon turned toward the tall, thin man holding the automatic. He quickly screwed a silencer onto the end of the barrel.

“And I was your alibi,” Lyon said. “You knew that I'd swear to the time the plane went down.”

“As you were to be my alibi for the Esposito killing, but you saw through that one rather quickly.”

“You were the only one who could have put it together. You knew we'd be at your house that day, and knew of Bea's gift.”

“Give me the gun, Damon.” Rocco's voice was steady, almost gentle, as he walked slowly toward the man with the pistol.

“Stop right there.”

“The gun, Damon.”

The weapon thumped, and Rocco fell with one leg bent to the side. He raised himself to his knees and began to crawl forward. “Drop it.”

The weapon thumped again. Rocco's other leg twitched, and he fell face forward into the sand. Damon walked over to the fallen police officer and slipped the magnum from its holster.

Rocco's hand curled around Damon's ankle. As Rocco jerked the leg, tripping Damon back into the sand, Lyon rushed forward. Damon twisted to his feet and into a crouch, with the gun leveled at Lyon's midsection.

“Not another step, Wentworth!” He walked carefully around Rocco, taking care to stay away from the big man's hands, and brought the butt of the pistol down on the prone chief's head. As Rocco's face slumped into the sand, Damon unsnapped the handcuffs from the holster belt and cuffed Rocco's hands behind him. “Get the other pair out of the cruiser's glove compartment! Go on!”

Lyon entered the passenger side of the cruiser and clicked open the glove compartment. The extra handcuffs were on top of a pile of traffic summons forms. He glanced up at the ceiling, where the shotgun was bracketed. He tried to remember whether Rocco had told him the weapon was loaded or empty. He supposed the chamber would be empty, so he would have to pump a shell in.

“Hurry up!”

He glanced through the windshield to see Damon standing by the unconscious Rocco. Without further thought Lyon reached up and wrenched the shotgun from its mountings, pumped a shell into the chamber, and pointed the gun over the car door toward Damon.

Damon laid the muzzle of the automatic against Rocco's forehead. “You fire—and he gets it in the head!”

“I can't miss with a shotgun!”

“Neither can I.”

Lyon knew the shotgun blast would kill Damon before he could fire more than once. Even if the automatic was able to snap a second shot in his direction, it would probably miss—although the first, fired directly into Rocco's head, could not miss. He let the shotgun clatter against the car's fender, raised his hands, with the handcuffs dangling from his fingers, and walked toward Damon.

“I don't like the way he's breathing.”

“It doesn't really make much difference. Put him in the balloon.”

“What?”

Damon waved the pistol at him. “You heard me. Dump him into the basket!”

Lyon dragged Rocco toward the balloon basket and, as gently as he could, lowered the inert form over the edge, onto the floor.

“Turn around,” Damon ordered. “Hands behind your back.”

As Lyon obeyed, he felt the grip of the handcuffs over his wrists. “What are you going to do?”

“Into the basket.”

“There isn't room, with him on the floor.”

He felt the pressure of the automatic's silencer against the small of his back. “You know, it doesn't really matter whether I shoot you.”

Lyon awkwardly put one leg over the side of the basket, teetered a moment, then shoved upward with the remaining foot and fell into the basket, on top of Rocco. Trying to find space on the flooring where his feet would not dig into the unconscious man's vulnerable body, he struggled to stand.

“You can't do this, Damon.”

“Wind's right.”

Lyon looked toward the pole at the front of the house, where an American flag rippled in the stiff breeze. It pointed directly toward the water, which meant that there was a strong offshore breeze. His fears were confirmed when Damon stood on the edge of the basket. Reaching as far into the balloon envelope as he could, Damon severed the release- and ripping-panel lines. He used one of the severed ends to tie the propane lever down in the ON position. With the butt of his pistol he knocked the propane valve off the tank in the basket.

The balloon began to lift from the ground as the propane burned directly over Lyon's head. It would be too high for him to reach with his hands cuffed behind his back.

“What would you guess, Lyon?” Damon yelled up at him. “Maybe twenty or so miles out over the water before it comes down?” Damon gave him a mock salute and cut the mooring line.

As Lyon looked down at the rapidly retreating ground, Damon seemed already to have dismissed them from thought. He was busily loading the airplane and radio device into the motorboat. It was obvious that they would be dumped into the sound.

He wished he had told Bea everything. The rush of events had given them little time together, and he had never brought her up to date on his discoveries. There was only the forlorn hope that at some later time she would go over the invoices and papers concerning his recent purchases, and perhaps piece together his theory … that is, if she didn't automatically destroy all his personal effects upon his death.

He braced himself against the side of the basket and watched with fascination. He had never made an ascent under these conditions and at this speed, but he could imagine the parabolic curve of the balloon as it gained altitude and, caught by the wind, swung out over the water.

Rocco stirred and moaned on the floor of the basket. Lyon looked down at him and saw blood seeping from both leg wounds. Rocco moaned again as his eyes opened. His head bobbed back and forth as he looked at the side of the basket and strained against the handcuffs.

“My God! Where are we?”

“In the balloon.”

“Oh, Jesus! What's happening?”

“If the propane held out, which it won't, we'd be making the first transatlantic balloon crossing.”

15

Bea knew something was wrong as soon as she opened the door. Damon Snow stood before her, his body bent forward in a tired slump, and a slackness in his narrow features.

“What is it?” she asked in a weak voice.

“I don't know how those things are supposed to work, but I was worried and thought I should see you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rocco and Lyon launched the balloon at Lantern City. They seemed to be in a hurry, as if they were checking on something.”

Bea wanted to grab his shirt front and shout in his face. “I don't understand. Rocco has always sworn he'd never go up.”

“There was a strong offshore breeze that blew them out over the sound, and that's the last I saw of them.”

“How long ago?”

Damon looked at his watch. “Almost two hours ago.”

“My God! What time did you call the Coast Guard?”

He looked puzzled. “The Coast Guard? I never thought of it. I began to worry after an hour, when they didn't come back.”

“Why did you drive all the way out here when you could have called?”

“At first I thought they were headed for Long Island and would call you when they arrived. Then, when I saw the drift …”

“Which way was the wind blowing when you left?”

“The same as when they went up, about ten knots, from the southwest.”

Bea ran for the study. Her hands trembled as she dialed the Coast Guard. The problem cascaded out in short, choppy sentences: “… That's right, over two hours. The tank would be empty now.… Wind from the southwest … what's the recent weather report?… Same wind as the last two hours.… Thank you. Yes, I'll call the Civil Air Patrol.”

Others to call. She couldn't remember the numbers. Where was the phone book? Bea put her hands to her face for a moment until her mind cleared, and then she reached for the phone again to dial information. “This is an emergency. Please give me the numbers of the Civil Air Patrol, the Connecticut National Guard, the FAA team at Bradley Airport, and Westover Air Force Base. Please hurry!”

As she attempted to give the pertinent information in a quick, rational manner, she saw Damon in Lyon's chair, observing her. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked when she was finished with the last call.

“There's nothing more to be done.”

“I'll drive you to my house in Lantern City.”

“They'll be calling back here. I'd rather wait.”

“What will happen to the balloon?”

“That depends on a lot of things: their altitude, how well he conserved fuel, any air currents they might have picked up. When the propane runs out, the hot air will cool and they'll come down in the water.”

“It's pretty calm out there today. An inflatable raft will save them until they're picked up.”

“There isn't any raft or life jacket.”

“Oh.”

“I'm going to have a drink. Will you have something?”

“A scotch and water, please.” He followed her into the kitchen. “I feel responsible for this. I should have stopped them.”

“It's not your fault. Lyon is one of the most experienced balloonists in New England. He knew the risks.”

“Why was he so insistent on going up?”

Bea took an ice tray from the freezer and stood poised by the kitchen sink. “It had something to do with the murders. Lyon had been away for almost two days checking and assembling things. He told Rocco some of it when I was on the phone yesterday. They went off, and when he came back he fell into bed mumbling that he'd tell me the whole thing in the morning. He was gone when I awoke this morning. We never did have a chance to talk about it.”

“Then you don't know what he had in mind?”

She slowly dropped ice cubes into two glasses. “As I said, he mumbled something; it sounded like, ‘nothing as it seems, through the looking glass. It's all in the toys.' It didn't make much sense, and he was very tired.”

“No, it doesn't.”

Bea mechanically poured scotch into the glasses and added tap water. “I know this. He had the answer to the Giles murder.”