The Death in the Willows (9 page)

“Not today.”

“Too late. He's on his way. You can't cancel appointments with news writers and win elections.”

“What paper is he with?”

“A magazine writer. Then there's the delegation from Miss Porter's school at eleven, and a speech before the University Club at noon.”

“Will my opponent be there?”

“You know it.”

“This afternoon we can sleep it off.”

“At two the new interns from Trinity, a news conference at six. You had better have a short dinner and get back, in case the legislature manages to break early.”

Bea took the clipboard from Kim and contemplated the day's activities. They were a fine testimonial for abstinence. The intercom rang and she answered with a “Yes, Dottie?”

“A Mr. Raven Marsh is here to see you.”

“Show him in.”

The day had begun.

6

Intermittent bursts of jagged flame ejaculated into the fog.

Lyon steered his pickup off the highway onto a grassy slope and slowed to a stop. He bent over the steering wheel and craned his neck to look up at the large round shapes spotted across the field that were beginning to rise through the mist.

“You'll have to admit they are beautiful.”

Bea yawned. “Nothing is beautiful at six in the morning.”

“As soon as the sun's well up, this fog will burn off. The weather report says a three-to-four-mile-an-hour wind. It's going to be perfect launch weather.”

Bea yawned again and covered her mouth with her hand. “Excuse me if I continually fail to get excited over hot air balloons.”

He put the truck in gear and began to move slowly across the field, threading his way around campers, station wagons, and other pickups, all next to balloons in varying stages of inflation. A man stepped directly in their path and raised both hands. Lyon braked and rolled down the window. “Morning, Max. Looks like a better turnout than last year's meet.”

Maximus Popov, bearded, with bandy legs and casklike torso now partially covered by a bright red down vest, walked toward the truck and leaned in the window. “That you, Wentworth?”

“'Tis, professor. Where do you want me?”

“Over in the north corner, right behind the rig with the pirate on the side. I'll be over to see you a little later.” He gave Lyon a mock salute and turned to face another vehicle.

Moving at only a few miles an hour they wove their way past a dozen vehicles and around outstretched balloon envelopes in different stages of inflation. They parked at the far side of a black balloon with a thirty-foot Jolly Roger on its side. In movements rehearsed in long practice, they both left the truck and lowered the tailgate. Lyon rolled the Wobbly III onto the grass.

They worked silently and efficiently, unrolling the long envelope on the still damp meadow grass and then positioning the basket on the ring secured below the balloon bag. Lyon knelt next to the portable air compressor and pulled the start rope three times before the small engine coughed into life and began to pump air into the bag. As cool air began to fill the envelope, it billowed out on the ground, jouncing slightly from the surface.

Hooking the propane burner to a tank, Lyon held the unit across his body, beckoned to Bea who stepped aside, and ignited the device.

A three-foot spear of flame jutted through the early light. He made adjustments to the feed while Bea held the balloon aperture apart.

“Okay?”

“As we'll ever be.”

As flame continued to shoot into the envelope, it began to heat the cool air. The balloon began to fill and bob from the surface until within minutes it was in an upright position. As soon as it was fully erect and steady, he attached the burner to the fixture above his head in the gondola basket. From this juncture, only occasional bursts from the burner were needed to keep the balloon in gravitational balance.

Popov had moved across the field toward them and now stood back from the balloon looking up at the filled bag. “That's the damnedest thing. That face on the balloon. One of your characters?”

“A Wobbly.”

“Mean looking bastard.”

“What's on the agenda first?”

“That's what I want to talk to you about. As soon as everyone's in the air, I'd like to organize a hare and hound.”

“And you want me to be the hare?”

“You have as many hours in as anyone. Mind?”

“No, glad to. Tell me when you want me to leave.” Lyon turned to make his preflight checks on the balloon and the few instruments mounted in the basket. The sun began to glow a dull red over the horizon; the early fog had somewhat dissipated, although long tendrils still hung over the field and a ground mist swirled at knee height.

Kim was entranced. Her attention was so closely riveted to the man by her side that she missed the turnoff and had to stop and back up to the roped spectator parking area. “How do you know so much about Africa?”

“I spent some time in Kenya with Leakey. Fascinating man, we'll have to talk about him sometime. We there?”

“That we are. Now, come on. We have to find the Wentworth balloon before it takes off.”

“Right. Well, anyway, my favorite tribe is the Watusi. Magnificent people, the men all average over six feet in height, and they have some fascinating tribal customs. You know, it's still practically the middle of the night, an excellent time for a frontal assault or hunting, but otherwise all good men and women should be abed.”

“Frontal assaults you may have covered, but this is obviously your first hot air balloon meet.”

“Matter of fact, it is. I covered Forbes when he attempted a transatlantic crossing, but of course that was a fixed gas vehicle.” He pulled a silver flask from his jacket. “Indulge?”

“Hardly ever before eight in the morning.”

“A nip before eight is still drinking after dinner.”

“We'll miss the inflating.”

“Not a chance.” Raven Marsh unwound from the small car and tilted back his head to take a swig from the flask. He joined Kim. They stepped over the rope separating the parking area from the launch sites. “Good crowd for so early in the morning.”

“There's less wind this time of day and the air heats better.”

The loud
whoosh
immediately to his side made Raven jump and nearly fall as he gripped Kim's arm. “My God! What's that?”

“A propane burner. They're used to heat the air.”

“Christ! I thought we were under rocket attack.”

Kim led Raven through the labyrinth of inflated balloons to where the Wobbly III bobbed at its moorings. Bea waved as they approached, while Lyon was oblivious to them as he continued his preflight checks.

“GLAD YOU COULD MAKE IT, RAVEN. The one in the basket is my husband, Lyon. LYON, MEET RAVEN.”

“Huh?” Lyon turned toward them, his mind still filled with calculations. “Hi.”

“RAVEN'S DOING THE STORY.”

“What story?” Lyon automatically plucked his wife's ear and adjusted the hearing aid.

“You're a fascinating couple, Mr. Wentworth. Your career, your wife's political position, the hijacking incident, and now this. Great! Really great. Hot air ballooning will be the added color we need.”

Lyon turned to busy himself with the mooring line. “I don't care to discuss the hijacking. Any coverage of Bea's political race will be appreciated, but I will not talk about the shooting on the bus.”

“I wouldn't dream of infringing upon your privacy without your permission.”

Mollified, Lyon smiled and reached for Raven's hand. “I'll keep you to that. Glad to meet you.”

“What magazine will publish the story?” Bea asked.

“Playboy
.”

“What?” Kim looked incredulous as she turned toward the writer. “You're kidding?”

Raven put his arm around her and smiled. “Hey, sweets, it's not all naked flesh, you know. They publish some of the major writers, and they pay the best.”

Several nearby propane burners ignited simultaneously and again Raven Marsh jumped. Over a dozen balloons were now in nearly inflated condition and still others were being off-loaded from trucks and trailers. Several were hovering in the sky with their mooring lines still tethered to car bumpers. It seemed to be a scene of massive animals awakening and unlimbering as they left hibernation for an onslaught against the cloud gods. “Reminds me of WW Two. The Big Eight in the U.K. Dawn. Engines revving. A toss of the scarf over the shoulder as we bid farewell.”

Lyon looked perplexed for only a moment. “Big Eight in the U.K.? You don't look old enough to have served in England with the Eighth Air Force in World War Two.”

“Vicariously, Wentworth. Vicariously. I go to a lot of movies.”

Lyon looked at the man standing by his gondola. He seemed to be about thirty-five, of average height and weight, dressed in corduroy slacks and matching jacket with leather patches on the elbows. The smile seemed ingenuous, and a small breeze ruffled the reddish hair causing a forelock to spread across his brow.

Kim tapped the writer on the shoulder. “Ah, Raven, about the article. Exactly what sort of photographs do you plan to use?”

“Well, I thought we'd get a shot of Bea stretched out on that long couch in her office. Au naturel, of course. But because of her prestigious position, I shall let her clutch a copy of the state constitution in an appropriate place.”

“And you will go up in the balloon—hanging by your feet.”

Raven laughed. “You're jealous, sweets. You want to be the centerfold. I can see the caption—Black Beauty with angry visage.”

“How about dropping dead?”

“Come on, you should know me better than that. I'll take some shots of everyday things. But this balloon business is a natural. I ought to get some great pictures. Where's my camera?”

“You left it on the back seat of the car.”

“Be right back.”

They watched him hurry toward the spectator parking lot, making wide detours around balloons with active burners.

“Is he for real?” Bea asked.

“He's been everywhere,” Kim replied. “And according to him, done everything.”

“How long is he going to be with us?”

“He didn't exactly say. Only that he thought we'd be good material for a story and the magazine thought so also.”

“Particularly after the hijacking.”

Max Popov lumbered toward them as the last remnants of the morning fog burned off the meadow. On the highway they could see a steady stream of spectator cars pulling into the lot. More balloons were in the air, some ascending a hundred feet to the farthest extent of their mooring lines and then descending. Lyon stood in his basket ready for flight and awaited Popov with anticipation.

“Come over to my camper, Wentworth. Let's plan this here shindig.”

Lyon glanced up at the balloon to make sure it had enough stability to remain upright.

“I know,” Bea said. “We'll look after your balloon toy until you get back.”

Lyon and Popov walked toward the small trailer at the far corner of the field. “Great day for a meet, great day,” Popov said with glee. They entered the trailer where a youngish woman wearing tight jeans, with blond hair cascading down her back, was petulantly looking at a coffeepot on the two-burner stove. She waved at Lyon as the two men bent over a map laid out on the Formica-topped table.

“How's the wind and direction?” Lyon asked.

“Four miles from the southeast. That'll give you a clear shot at the ridges to the north, or up the valley. Watch out for Hawkins Pond. I don't feel like wading in after people.”

“What about power lines?” The unspoken fear between the two men was the fatal danger to their cumbersome vehicles if they approached a high tension line at low altitude.

“There's a heavy line to the west. You should be well away of it unless there's a radical change of wind.”

“Good. I'll go up to five hundred, stop, then to a thousand. One rapid descent and then a fast ascent.”

“Sounds good. You have someone to chase for you?”

“My wife will follow me.”

“Good flight. I'll give you a four-minute start.”

“You're on.”

Popov folded the map and handed it to Lyon. “Good luck.”

Lyon took the map and glanced down at the legend on its face and read it aloud, “Do not use for navigational purposes after 1970?” He looked up at Popov.

“Don't worry. I know the area.” He thumped Lyon's shoulder. “Take off as soon as you can.”

“Right.” He walked back to the Wobbly III, which bobbed unattended and had begun to cant to the side. He climbed into the basket and gave the propane a short burn, which righted the envelope. Two balloons away he saw Bea and Kim shaking hands with a group of spectators. She turned in alarm when she heard the sound of the burn.

He would have been annoyed if he weren't so pleased in having Popov select him as the hare. In the several years he had come to the annual New England Balloon Meet, he had never received the honor and now felt that the small ballooning community had finally admitted him into their inner ranks.

He glanced up through the balloon aperture into the bag's interior. The red line running from the basket to the ripping panel was in place and working. In the event of an emergency descent, the panel could be pulled, which tore away a segment of the bag and allowed large gulps of hot air to escape into the atmosphere. It provided for a very rapid descent. He reached over his head and flipped the level of the propane burner, and a spurt of flame spewed into the bag, increasing the interior temperature of the balloon and causing it to bob slightly from the ground.

He tapped the face of the three instruments in the basket and then nodded toward Bea. She untied the mooring line from the bumper of the pickup and he coiled it neatly in the gondola.