eyes flickered in the light as they stared up at him.
Lyon slowly lowered the ax and took two backward steps.
âMy father sent him!â the girl screamed.
âHeâs a goddamn pervert,â her boyfriend answered. âYou seen enough, mister?â
âI ⦠Iâm sorry,â Lyon said. âI thought you would have heard my ⦠never mind.â He turned and, red-faced, left the crypt and its young lovers.
It was ten minutes later, when he had finished checking out the cemetery and was turning the ultralight around, when the young couple came out of the crypt. She was still adjusting her clothing, and he wheeled a motorcycle around the squat stone building and prepared to kick-start it. He glared at Lyon. âOkay, Peeping Tom. The place is all yours, pervert.â The motorcycle roared into life.
Lyon wheeled the ultralight in a semicircle and positioned it for takeoff. It was going to be a long day.
The cemetery was barely visible from the road, and if his map hadnât indicated its location, he might have flown past without landing. The rusted gate was nearly obscured by high weeds, and the graves had not been tended in years. The foundation of a church was nearby, its interior filled with fire-blackened timbers.
Seeing that there was no road within the cemetery itself that would accommodate his craft, he decided on an easy road landing. He throttled the engine back to a near stall and made his approach. It was a bad landing that ran too close to the rusting fence, and the wing almost engaged the iron spikes. He was tiring, and in addition to that, the limits of the craftâs cruising range had been reached. There was a small airport near Torrington where he would land and refuel after this last search.
He unstrapped himself from his precarious seat and pushed the ultralight off the road until its nose touched the cemetery gates. He retrieved his tools from behind the seat and started wearily into the cemetery.
How many had it been? He had lost count. He could take out his map and count off the ones he had searched, but it hardly seemed worth the effort.
It was all too farfetched. Under the stress of her abduction, Bea might have mistakenly named lilacs, or he could have misconstrued the whole clue and missed an obvious answer.⦠All his doubts seemed to merge into his aching body as he trudged up the steep incline of the small country cemetery.
He walked the lanes between the gravestones, keeping an eye open for a possible air vent. Years ago he had read of a kidnapping in the south where a young girl had been entombed in a packing case buried beneath the ground. He sounded the ax against any above-the-ground crypts or mausoleums and listened with his stethoscope for sounds in their interiors.
He walked the leaf-strewn lanes between the stones. The ones located nearest the road were the oldest. Their faces were worn smooth from the elements; only a few with deep-cut letters still announced the name of the deceased. Lyon had a strong sense of history, and now he felt a living presence, as if the souls of those interred were near him.
He was not a spiritualist, nor was he a believer in any facet of the supernatural; still, he felt he could somehow sense the dead.
He was tired and sat on a toppled stone. A soft breeze brushed his face, and he sighed and forced himself back to his feet.
The crypt at the top of the hill stared down at him like a malevolent face. He felt drawn toward it and began to walk up the hill. Etched into a marble slab across the front of the tomb was the family name, Trumbull. It was a vaguely familiar name, yet he couldnât place it.
The tomb was built into the side of the hill, with a marble face broken in the center by a locked barred door before an oval interior metal door.
Lyon inserted the stethoscope earpieces and pressed the bell through the bars until it was flush against the inner door.
With his free hand, he slammed the ax
Lyon slowly lowered the ax and took two backward steps.
âMy father sent him!â the girl screamed.
âHeâs a goddamn pervert,â her boyfriend answered. âYou seen enough, mister?â
âI ⦠Iâm sorry,â Lyon said. âI thought you would have heard my ⦠never mind.â He turned and, red-faced, left the crypt and its young lovers.
It was ten minutes later, when he had finished checking out the cemetery and was turning the ultralight around, when the young couple came out of the crypt. She was still adjusting her clothing, and he wheeled a motorcycle around the squat stone building and prepared to kick-start it. He glared at Lyon. âOkay, Peeping Tom. The place is all yours, pervert.â The motorcycle roared into life.
Lyon wheeled the ultralight in a semicircle and positioned it for takeoff. It was going to be a long day.
The cemetery was barely visible from the road, and if his map hadnât indicated its location, he might have flown past without landing. The rusted gate was nearly obscured by high weeds, and the graves had not been tended in years. The foundation of a church was nearby, its interior filled with fire-blackened timbers.
Seeing that there was no road within the cemetery itself that would accommodate his craft, he decided on an easy road landing. He throttled the engine back to a near stall and made his approach. It was a bad landing that ran too close to the rusting fence, and the wing almost engaged the iron spikes. He was tiring, and in addition to that, the limits of the craftâs cruising range had been reached. There was a small airport near Torrington where he would land and refuel after this last search.
He unstrapped himself from his precarious seat and pushed the ultralight off the road until its nose touched the cemetery gates. He retrieved his tools from behind the seat and started wearily into the cemetery.
How many had it been? He had lost count. He could take out his map and count off the ones he had searched, but it hardly seemed worth the effort.
It was all too farfetched. Under the stress of her abduction, Bea might have mistakenly named lilacs, or he could have misconstrued the whole clue and missed an obvious answer.⦠All his doubts seemed to merge into his aching body as he trudged up the steep incline of the small country cemetery.
He walked the lanes between the gravestones, keeping an eye open for a possible air vent. Years ago he had read of a kidnapping in the south where a young girl had been entombed in a packing case buried beneath the ground. He sounded the ax against any above-the-ground crypts or mausoleums and listened with his stethoscope for sounds in their interiors.
He walked the leaf-strewn lanes between the stones. The ones located nearest the road were the oldest. Their faces were worn smooth from the elements; only a few with deep-cut letters still announced the name of the deceased. Lyon had a strong sense of history, and now he felt a living presence, as if the souls of those interred were near him.
He was not a spiritualist, nor was he a believer in any facet of the supernatural; still, he felt he could somehow sense the dead.
He was tired and sat on a toppled stone. A soft breeze brushed his face, and he sighed and forced himself back to his feet.
The crypt at the top of the hill stared down at him like a malevolent face. He felt drawn toward it and began to walk up the hill. Etched into a marble slab across the front of the tomb was the family name, Trumbull. It was a vaguely familiar name, yet he couldnât place it.
The tomb was built into the side of the hill, with a marble face broken in the center by a locked barred door before an oval interior metal door.
Lyon inserted the stethoscope earpieces and pressed the bell through the bars until it was flush against the inner door.
With his free hand, he slammed the ax
Similar Books
