Death Under the Lilacs (22 page)

Lyon turned around. From this vantage point he could see the secondary highway at the end of their long curving drive. He knew from experience that at this time of year only the chimney of the house was visible from the road. It seemed doubtful that the attacker would park so conspicuously.

On the left side of the house, beyond Bea's garden, were nearly impenetrable rows of bramble bushes. He had attempted to trim the area last fall, and the countless scratches and cuts he had suffered attested to the difficulty anyone would have in trying to crawl through that maze of underbrush.

The attack would come from the right. The lawn sloped gently toward a stand of pine that stood on a low ridge. When darkness fell, tree shadows would provide excellent cover, and the ridge height would give a rifleman the distinct advantage of unobstructed sight lines to the house.

“Lyon.” The trapdoor at the end of the widow's walk raised as Bea stuck her head over the edge. “Rocco's on the phone. He's pretty upset and wants to send Jamie Martin over here.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, but he insists on talking to you.”

“Be right there.”

The concern in Rocco's voice was obvious. “Traxis is gone.”

“What does ‘gone' mean?”

“It means he slipped away from the guy watching him. Damn fool!”

“Was it an obvious attempt, or did the guy on surveilance just slip up?”

“We're not exactly sure, and we hope to pick him up again soon. It was the oldest gambit in the world. He drove to a drugstore and went in. Our guy sat in his car for fifteen minutes before he became suspicious and went into the store. There was a back entrance that Traxis must have used.”

“Then he went off without his car?”

“The car was gone when our guy came back out. Listen, this worries me. You know that Traxis thinks Bea can ID Reuven, which brings the whole mess right to his doorstep. If you don't want Jamie out there, I'll come myself.”

“No, Rocco.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“No bodyguards.”

“I'll stop in for a friendly drink and stay until they pick up his trail again.”

“You'll stay all night and leave your car in the drive. No.”

“Are you up to something?”

“After all that we've been through, we want to be alone. Can't you understand a simple thing like that?” Lyon inwardly cringed at the tone of his voice.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “It's your life, old buddy.” Rocco was miffed. “I've got better things to do tonight. Somebody tinkered with my supply closet.”

“Call you in the morning,” Lyon said and abruptly hung up.

“You weren't very nice,” Bea said.

“We can't have him out here tonight.” He looked over at Bea, who was standing by the kitchen counter in a floor-length granny dress. “That is singularly unattractive.”

“I thought you'd like it.”

“It looks like Mother Hubbard's nightgown. How does the vest fit?”

Bea thumped her chest and produced a soft clunking sound. “It's huge on me and comes down below my bottom.”

“That one was made specifically for Rocco. You could probably fit three of you in there. Did you cut out part of the back like I asked?”

“Over there.” She pointed to the counter, where a pile of the rear portion of the jacket lay.

Lyon hefted the cut remnants in his hand and looked out the window. The day was dying, and once the final rim of sun sank below the hills, dusk would quickly deepen. “We don't have much time.” He took a portion of the cut vest and placed it around her neck.

“That's going to be pretty obvious, isn't it?”

“Not when we're through disguising it.”

Fifteen minutes later Bea Wentworth sat in deep shadows in a chair on the patio. The vest remnants were around her neck, covered by a large towel she had wrapped around her shoulders and neck. Most of her head was encased in an old-fashioned hair dryer that was supported by a metal stanchion. The floodlamps attached to the house gutters would cast a bright swatch of light across the patio when they were turned on.

“Where in the world did you get this dryer?”

“It was stuck back in an attic corner.”

“No one uses these things anymore. Everybody has a blow dryer.”

“I'm counting on the fact that our killer won't know that. I had to have protection for your head.” Lyon stepped back through the French door. Bea was as safe as he could possibly make her. From the protection on her neck to the rim of the hair dryer, only a few inches of her face were visible. He counted on the fact that the sharpshooter would notice this and decide on an easy body shot.

“A question, Went. If you're going to grab the guy before he shoots … why all this protection?”

“Added precaution. You okay?”

“Nervous as hell. You had better get on your way, it's almost dark.”

Lyon left the house through a darkened cellar window. He slid behind a row of bushes that masked the side of the house. He wore a dark poplin jacket with a rain hood that fastened tightly over his head. A flashlight was in his back pocket, the starlight scope was strapped to him, and he cradled the shotgun in his arms. He slithered down the bush line toward the end of the house.

There was a slight dip in the yard at the corner, and if he moved carefully in the darkness, he would not cast a silhouette that would be visible from the pines on the low ridge to his front.

It took him ten minutes to work his way across the broad expanse of lawn to the tree line. He lay quietly for a few moments at the base of the ridge and listened. The night was filled with sound, crickets chirped, and the faint scratch of nocturnal animals could be heard. Everything seemed natural. He gave a short lunge and rolled under the shadows of a low pine tree.

He turned to face the house. He could see the light in the kitchen, and the reflected light from the lamp in his study. Bea was still shrouded in darkness on the patio. In minutes she would throw the switch and be illuminated by the patio floods. He was very near the position that the gunman would probably assume.

Lyon squatted near the base of the tree and again listened to the night sounds. He could not detect any alien movement and began to work his way down the inner line of trees toward the far end of the promontory.

He knew the place he had selected well. It was a rock cropping perched on the edge of the cliff high above the slowly moving Connecticut River. He wedged himself between two boulders that would give him flank protection. His field of vision extended down along the pines that marked the edge of the woods and also along the lawn leading to the house.

The patio lights flicked on and instantly revealed Bea. She held a book in her hands, but as time progressed, he saw that she did not turn the pages.

He unstrapped the starlight scope and arranged the flashlight and shotgun by his side. He adjusted the scope and began to examine the line of trees to his front.

The attack would have to come from that direction. There was no other position that allowed a clear shot of Bea on the patio.

She would stay on the patio for ninety minutes and then hurry into the house. Whatever was going to happen must occur within that time span; if not, they would have to try again tomorrow night.

With the passage of time, Lyon's eyes adjusted to the dark, and with the aid of the starlight scope he had a clear view of the ridge line.

It was an interminable wait. His hands gripped the pistol grip of the shotgun with perspiring palms. He worried that if he raised the barrel it would wobble, but assured himself that it wouldn't matter how accurate his aim was. All that he had to do was point in the general direction of his adversary.

He hoped it wouldn't come to that. He hoped that his superior position behind the marksman and the bright glare of the flashlight would force an immediate surrender.

A half-moon scudded behind fast-drifting clouds and the tree line to his front darkened into deep shadows. The night sounds seemed to fade until all that he could hear was the rustle of a light breeze through the tops of the pines.

The press of metal against the nape of his neck was unmistakable.

He hadn't heard a sound.

Someone crouched behind him with a knee pressed into the small of his back. One hand pushed his face deep into the leafy-dirt surface while the other held the pistol firmly against his head.

“How dumb do you think I am, Wentworth?” The voice was low, nearly guttural. “I learned. I learned to survive in the jungle. And you sent me there.”

“I had nothing to …”

The barrel of the pistol slammed against his cheekbone, and pain radiated down his jaw. He gave an involuntary grunt.

“You sure in hell did. When you turned down that thesis I spent a year of hell over there. And after that it was downhill. Each year, as things got worse, I thought of you and how you caused it. Now, it's pay-up time.”

“You lived through it, Bates. That's important. We can …” Again the side of the barrel smashed into his face.

“Not another word. What's with you? Did you think I was going to stroll up here and take a shot at her from some obvious spot?” Bates bent toward Lyon's ear and spoke in a whisper. “We're going to move up to the tree line. We're going to the exact spot where you thought I would go. If you do not do exactly as I say, I will kill you first. Now, get slowly to your feet and move ahead of me to the trees. Now!”

Lyon felt the muzzle pressed firmly against his back as he moved forward. Bea was clearly outlined in light on the patio. As they approached the tree line of pines, she stood and placed her book in the chair seat. The ninety minutes were up. In seconds she would be out of the frame of light and safely in the house.

“Damn!” Bates shoved Lyon forward with such force that he tripped over a root and fell. He rolled over to see that ten feet away Bates had dropped the pistol and pulled off a rifle slung on his back. He cradled it in his arms with the sling wound around his arm as he snapped it to his shoulder and took a quick sighting.

Lyon rolled over to his hands and knees. “Bea!” he screamed simultaneously with the rifle shot.

The high-powered projectile hit Bea Wentworth with several thousand foot-pounds, flinging her across the patio and over the edge of the parapet.

Lyon instinctively somersaulted while the afterimage of Bea's shooting seared him. On his feet, he ran toward Bates Stockton as the rifle swiveled in his direction.

Lyon dived and caught Bates with his right shoulder as they both fell.

Bates struggled to his knees and held the rifle by the barrel and swung it at Lyon. It missed by inches.

Shots.

Evenly spaced shots with a crescendo that reverberated over the hills.

Bates dived for the protection of a tree trunk, the fallen rifle forgotten for the moment.

Bullets cracked overhead. Lyon realized that they were being fired from somewhere near the corner of the house and were hitting the trees and piercing the foliage several feet above their heads. Whoever was shooting was aiming high.

Lyon scuttled back through the trees toward the edge of the promontory and his equipment. He frantically searched through the dried leaves between the rocks for the shotgun. His fingers passed over the stock, and he pulled the weapon toward him.

The firing had stopped.

The heavy boom of the weapon that had aimed over their heads had to be a .357 magnum, the weapon that Rocco carried.

Lyon turned toward the tree line with the shotgun at his waist.

Bates seemed to rise out of the darkness before him. He had retrieved his handgun and held it in his right hand while his left supported his wrist. It was aimed directly at Lyon's chest.

Lyon had only to move the shotgun a few inches until it pointed directly at Bates.

“It's a standoff, Wentworth, but with a difference. I can do it and you can't. I'm going to waste you.”

The night was clear and nearly bright as clouds moved away from the half-face of the moon. They stood on the edge of the rock face high over the water, and Lyon could clearly see Bates' features. He knew the man was going to shoot him. The pointed weapon was only a few feet from his sternum. The bullet would rip into his chest, and he wouldn't even hear the sound of its retort.

“You know, Wentworth, you never did have any guts. If you did, you would have blown me apart with that bird gun you're holding. You had your chance. Now I'm going to give it to you in the face.” The handgun moved inexorably up Lyon's body toward his head.

A montage of pictures flipped past Lyon's eyes with blurring rapidity: the gaunt hollow look on Bea's face when he had released her from her confinement, the ill look on her face as she looked at the hanged Reuven, and the final and ultimate picture of her thrown off the parapet with Bates' well-aimed shot.

His finger tightend on the shotgun trigger.

Bates' grimace was a malevolent grin in the shaft of moonlight.

Bates' skewered smile turned to astonishment as he jerked forward against Lyon's body. They both sprawled in the dead leaves as the loud retort of the magnum echoed among the rocks.

Lyon turned his head to see the bulky shadow move cautiously through the woods toward them.

17

“I crushed a bed of chrysanthemums,” Bea said with a wry smile. “Help me get this thing off.” Her hands shook as she tried to sip brandy from a small snifter.

“I thought you were dead,” Lyon said as he peeled the granny dress off her shoulders and pulled it down. She obediently turned and he began to undo the flak vest.

“For a moment I thought I was. That thing hit me like a sledgehammer, and I lost my wind when I landed on my back in the garden.”

His fumbling fingers finally removed the last of the restraints, and he tenderly lifted the heavy vest off her body and let it fall to the floor. There was an ugly red welt in the center of her chest just above her bra. “My God!”