The Death at Yew Corner (24 page)

The man's right hand closed over hers, while his left came up toward her face. In the dim light she saw cheesecloth clutched in his fingers. The cloth closed over her face, and she smelled the sweet odor of chloroform.

She turned her head rapidly back and forth to escape the anesthetic cloth and simultaneously brought her knee up into her assailant's groin.

The man gave a mild grunt as her kneecap connected painfully with a hard curved surface at his groin.

A single screaming thought shook Bea. He was wearing a cup!

The cheesecloth was again pressed over her mouth and nostrils—and then blackness.

Rocco and Lyon finished painting the ceiling without appreciable damage to the rest of the room. Rocco carefully folded the drop cloths while Lyon capped the remainder of a gallon of paint.

“I'm hungry,” Lyon said. “What time is it?”

Rocco glanced down at the large watch strapped to his wrist with a heavy leather band. “Jesus Christ! It's after ten. Where in the hell is Bea?”

Lyon lifted the kitchen phone off its wall mounting and checked to make sure that the instrument gave off a steady dial tone. It did. The phone was in working order. If she had called they would have heard. “She's probably met someone political and gone for coffee,” he said. The words fell hollowly between them. Bea's Thursday-night schedule rarely changed—she was always home by nine or nine-fifteen. She knew he hadn't eaten and would wait until she returned.

“Want that I call headquarters and have the boys on patrol look out for her?”

Lyon shook his head. “I think not. The call would go out over the radio and half the people in Murphysville have scanners—the gossip would be all over town that the senator's husband was looking for his wife.”

Rocco nodded. “Makes sense.” He began to buckle on his belt with its holstered magnum that he had looped over a kitchen chair. “Why don't we just pop down to the shopping center and see?”

Lyon nodded affirmatively. “The car's probably busted down somewhere between here and there, and I wouldn't want her walking the roads alone this time of night.”

Rocco's meaty hand propelled him toward the front door. “Then let's move it!”

They found the small Datsun station wagon parked in the middle of the empty center lot. They sat silently in the car a moment as Rocco splayed the police car's spotlight over the empty car.

“Stop!” Lyon commanded, and Rocco trained the light on the shopping cart nosed against the rear of the vehicle. It was still filled with several bags of groceries. Lyon catapulted from the car and ran over to the cart. Rocco stood behind him with the beam of his powerful flashlight flickering over the bags.

“Over there,” Rocco said as he directed the light on a spot just behind the tailgate. “See them?”

Lyon stooped. “Yes.” He picked up the key chain. It was familiar; he recognized the car keys, the house key, and several others. He knew it belonged to his wife. “They're Bea's,” he announced softly.

Rocco stepped around the side of the vehicle and turned his light into the empty interior. “I wonder how long it's been?”

Lyon felt several items in the grocery bags: a package of steaks, a carton of milk, and a container of ice cream. The milk was lukewarm and the ice cream mushy. “At least an hour,” he said.

“Scanners or not,” Rocco said, “I think I had better put this on the air.

“I agree,” Lyon said. “Let the state police know too.”

“Right.” Rocco loped over to the patrol car and snatched the transmitter from its stanchion on the dashboard. He began to talk in a low voice.

Lyon listened to his friend's description of Bea and then looked out over the deserted shopping center with its empty parking lot. She was somewhere in the darkness beyond. He tried to will a picture of her, but the only response was a distant streetlight, partially hidden by a high tree, that winked back an indecipherable message.

2

Two cops sat on the edge of the parapet overlooking the Connecticut River. Cops have much in common that transcends their locale. They could have been two cops sitting near the Chicago or Hudson rivers rather than on the patio of a two-hundred-year-old home above the Connecticut River.

“You bring in Flash Warden?” Jamie Martin asked.

“Yeah. Rocco sweated him for two hours, but there's nothing there.”

“I always figured Warden for flashing, not abduction.”

The other cop responded reflectively through a wad of chewing tobacco. “I don't think the perp comes from around here. I think he's a transient who saw Senator Wentworth and stashed her in his car. Then he took off for the state forest.”

“Where he …”

“Yeah.”

Lyon Wentworth was standing in the doorway within hearing of the two officers on the parapet. His fingers began to tremble, and he felt a weakness in his knees. He turned away from the door and walked over to the bar cart to pour himself another pony of sherry. His chin was stubbled with unshaven beard, and his pants were rumpled from two days' use. He hadn't slept, and the fatigue was beginning to make his mind sluggish. He tossed the sherry down in one gulp, as if it were a shot of cheap bar whiskey, and instantly regretted it. The combination of sleeplessness and anxiety had reduced his tolerance.

A large arm snaked over his shoulder, and he felt Rocco's presence. “You okay, old buddy?”

“How in the hell are you in such better shape than I am?” Rocco had somehow found the time to shave and change his uniform. Lyon knew that the large police officer had had as little sleep as he, but Rocco seemed refreshed and alert.

“I've done this before,” Rocco said in a low voice. “After a while you almost get used to it.”

“What happened to her, Rocco? It doesn't make any sense.”

“The world is filled with crazies, Lyon. They lurk under rocks and pop out when we least expect them.”

“I guess.” Lyon walked over to the corner of the living room where a large map of the upper portion of the state had been tacked. He bent over to study the streets of Murphysville and then squatted near to get a better look.

They had searched the town until dawn. Rocco's calls had alerted his own men, and the dispatcher had called most of the off-duty patrolmen in to help with the search. Lyon had ridden in the chief's car, hour after hour, using the vehicle's spotlight to search culverts and road shoulders—frightened at what he might find.

“You got the list yet, Wentworth?”

Captain Norbert's voice boomed across the living room and seemed to intrude into every particle of Lyon's being. He felt his body tense as the state police captain moved toward him. “No, not yet,” he said, hoping the reply would discourage the man's approach.

“I need the list, Wentworth. I need a list of your wife's enemies.”

“My wife is a politician, Captain Norbert. She has a good many friends … and enemies.”

“This guy want his wife back or not?” The comment was addressed to Rocco at Lyon's side.

“You're out of order, Norbie,” Rocco said as he stepped between Lyon and the state police captain.

“Listen, Herbert. I wouldn't even be in on this case so soon if you hadn't begged.”

“You're all heart, Norbie. You're really one hell of a sweet fella.”

Lyon had seen the two brothers-in-law in argument before. They often seemed on the verge of physical mayhem, but somehow one or the other, perhaps out of deference to Rocco's wife, always retreated from a final confrontation.

“I'll make up some sort of list of names I consider worthwhile following up on,” Lyon finally said to dissipate the tension in the room. He turned back to continue his examination of the map. The streets of Murphysville had been combed, searched, and researched. It was the hundreds of acres of state forest abutting the edge of town that concerned Lyon. It was an undeveloped recreational area with miles of unpaved roads, paths, and logging trails. Their search could only be perfunctory with the men available, and yet it was perhaps the most likely area.

He turned abruptly away from the map.

A cacophony of sound seemed to wash over him as if his ears had just become unblocked. In various parts of the living room and dining room, men and women manned phones and radios, their voices vying with each other as they made contact with search units both locally and at the state police barracks. They seemed to eddy in tight groups, as if each feared contamination from the other.

Rocco's men plotted local search routes and made marks on the map as outlying cruisers reported in. The state police monitored the house phone and had direct connections open with all state police barracks and the phone company switching terminal.

Two FBI agents, dressed in dark suits, sat stoically on the couch and seemed to observe everything with a certain silent disdain.

Society had armed itself, but could only wait until contact was made or Bea located; then other experts would replace those assembled here tonight.

The phone rang.

The room fell instantly silent. A state police corporal threw a switch on a recording device and looked up at Lyon expectantly. A woman officer spoke in a low voice to the telephone office.

The phone rang again, and Lyon tentatively picked up the receiver. His palms perspired. “Yes?” His voice was strange to his ears.

“The full resources of the state of Connecticut are behind you, Lyon.”

“Thank you, Ruth.”

A voice behind him whispered to another officer. “It's the governor.”

“I wish she'd get off the goddamn phone,” Rocco mumbled.

“I've been in contact with Major Drummond of the state police on this, Lyon,” the governor said. “I asked him what else we could do to help Senator Wentworth, and he suggested additional personnel for a search of the state forest in your area. I'm sending in a battalion of the National Guard tomorrow morning to conduct the search.”

Lyon's immediate impulse was to thank the governor, but do you thank someone who has just offered to help locate the body of your wife? If she were found in the state forest, she most surely would be dead. “That will help clear matters up, Ruth,” he finally said.

“Good! I'll get off the phone now. I just wanted you to know that I'm thinking about you.”

“Thank you.” He slowly replaced the receiver.

“We're going to get the bastard,” Rocco said.

“How?” Lyon retorted, allowing the bitterness he tasted to creep into his voice.

“When he tries to pick up the money,” Norbert snapped. “There's no way for him to pick up the ransom without our being there.”

“And then someone else kills her,” Lyon answered.

“We won't cuff him on the spot, Lyon,” Rocco replied. “We put a homing device on the package or we follow him with all sorts of indirect surveillance. Hell, those boys”—he gestured to the FBI contingent on the couch—“are experts on these matters.”

Lyon looked thoughtful. “The Amtrak line from New York to Boston runs for over 150 miles through this state. Suppose our mastermind has me ride the train prepared to throw off a valise of money when I receive some sort of light or other visual signal? You can't have men and cars posted along the whole route.”

“We'd use a homing device that emits a radio signal. They make them now the size of a medium coin,” Rocco said. “We would track the train with planes and helicopters from a suitable safe distance and have guys with you with radios. When the drop was made it would be an easy matter to follow the perp.”

“And if he suspects that scenario and changes containers?”

“We also use marked money,” Norbert said.

“And asks for tens and twenties equally distributed from several Federal Reserve districts? If he orders that the bills are to be old money and not in sequence?” Lyon suggested.

“They all make mistakes, Lyon,” Rocco insisted. “Somewhere along the line he or she will make a mistake and we'll get them.”

The phone sounded shrilly in the crowded room. They froze in position. Rocco arched his eyebrow toward Lyon and nodded toward the phone. Lyon took two hesitant steps and picked up the receiver.

“Wentworth here.”

“I've got her.”

The voice was inhuman in its pitch and tone. It resembled something manufactured as it spoke in a vibrato that only faintly resembled human speech.

“Who are you?” Lyon clenched the receiver. “Where is my wife, damn it!”

“Safe and sound for the time being, Wentworth. She'll live as long as you follow instructions.”

“What instructions? What do you want?”

“You'll find out. I just wanted you to know who has her.”

“Who?”

A laugh that sounded more like the whine of machinery. “I know you've called the cops, Wentworth, and it doesn't make any difference. Remember, follow the instructions or she dies … painfully.”

The phone clicked, and the dial tone hummed in Lyon's ear.

“Is that some sort of machine or what?” an incredulous voice asked from the rear of the room.

“What about the trace?” Rocco snapped.

“I'm getting it,” the officer with the earphones said as he talked in a low voice over his headset.

“Play that damn call back,” Norbert ordered the officer at the recorder.

“Yes, sir.” He rapidly pushed the “rewind” button and in a few seconds the “play” button. The hollow, inhuman voice began again.

“I've got her,” it repeated, and the short conversation continued until the sound of the dial tone again filled the room.

“How in the hell did he disguise his voice like that?” Norbert asked.

“A voice box,” Lyon said.

“A what?” Norbert asked impatiently.

“A voice box,” Lyon repeated. “I'm sure there's a scientific name for them. You've seen them. Cancer patients who have their vocal cords excised learn to speak with them.”