Death Under the Lilacs by Richard; Forrest Page A

against the metal until sound reverberated through the tomb and across the valley.
    He listened for a moment and was about to turn away when he heard a sound that seemed like a faint scratching from within the crypt.
    He tore the cold chisel from his back pocket and placed it against the padlock that chained shut the barred door. He struck the chisel with the ax three times before the lock fell apart. He noticed that the fallen lock was not rusted and was by far the newest artifact in this ancient graveyard.
    Lyon pulled open the barred door and swung up the lever restraining the interior door. He pushed in the final barrier.
    A large rat blinked in the bright light and then scooted between his feet and loped down the hill.
    â€œDamn!” he said. He would have to replace the lock he had just broken. That meant a round-trip to the nearest town. He began to close the door.
    The sound was hardly human, a guttural gasp.
    Lyon shoved the door open with such force that it banged against the interior wall. Mid-morning sun fell over his shoulder and crept into the tomb.
    She stood before him chained to the wall. Her eyes were sunken, with deep rings surrounding their sockets. Her clothing was tattered, and she was coated in dust and grime. Wisps of hair straggled over her face as she squinted painfully into the bright light.
    â€œYou took your time, Wentworth,” Bea said.

8
    He carried her down the hill past rows of gravestones toward the road. He had been able to chisel one end of the chain from the ring on the crypt wall, but the handcuff on her right wrist defied his simple tools, and the chain dangled behind them and clanked against stone as he made his way through the rusted gates.
    She nuzzled into the hollow of his shoulder. “Tell me this is the real thing,” she whispered.
    â€œIt is. You’re free.”
    She lifted her head, and the sun, falling through the leaves, dappled her face. She smiled and resumed her position against his neck. “I’ve lost weight. It makes for easier carrying.”
    â€œWe’ll fatten you up with lots of thick milk shakes and steaks.” He knelt with her and let her rest her back against the fence by the road. “A car’s bound to be along soon and we’ll get a ride to the nearest town.”
    â€œI want to go home,” she said.
    â€œI think we had better have you checked out at a hospital.”
    â€œI just want to go home. I’m tired and that shouldn’t be. All I’ve done the past few days, however long it’s been, has been to sleep.”
    He felt for her wrist and tried to take her pulse. It seemed fast and erratic. “I want you seen by a doctor before we go home. I’m sorry it took me so long. It took a while to find out what you meant by the lilac clue.”
    She smiled at him with drowsy eyes. “I knew you’d get it eventually. See, I have complete faith.”
    â€œWe’re lucky you knew where you were. You practically drew me a map.”
    She yawned. “The only thing I had to go on was the Trumbull name.”
    â€œTrumbull?”
    â€œThe name of the people whose tomb I inhabited. I knew I was in an old cemetery, and then I saw the family name Trumbull cut into the sarcophagus.”
    â€œI still don’t understand.”
    â€œThat’s because you aren’t a political person. When I ran for secretary of the state, I traveled through all of Connecticut. In the northwest one of my staunchest backers was a Rebecca Trumbull. A sweet old lady whose family had been here since before the Revolution. It’s not a common name, and that meant I was probably in her family mausoleum. That balloon trip we took last year had to have passed near here.”
    â€œA mile away, as I compute it.”
    â€œDid you give him what he wanted?”
    â€œThe stamps?”
    â€œWhatever he asked for on the tape. I was so busy thinking about the Trumbulls that I wasn’t paying