A Child's Garden of Death Read Free Page B

Wentworth.”
    â€œJust a moment, please.” The trooper went back to the cruiser, and Lyon could see him talking into the microphone of his radio. Lyon was annoyed at the delay and momentarily considered pulling off the shoulder, back onto the highway, but then again, he supposed that would annoy the trooper.
    In a few minutes the officer was back at the car. “Your name is Wentworth, and you say you own this car.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œAny identification?”
    â€œI told you, I must have left my wallet at home.”
    â€œGet out of the car.”
    â€œWhat?”
    The revolver pointed directly at Lyon’s nose. With his free hand the trooper opened the car door. “Get out.” All friendliness and politeness were gone from his voice. “Out!”
    Lyon slowly stepped from the car; the trooper stepped back, revolver still pointing. “What is this?” Lyon asked.
    â€œAround. Brace.” The trooper’s free hand grasped Lyon’s elbow and spun him toward the car. “Hands on the roof.”
    Lyon placed his palms on the roof of the car and leaned forward. He felt the trooper’s brisk hands run across his body. My God! He was frisking him. He turned. “What in hell is this?”
    â€œBack around.” Lyon turned back to the roof of the car. “Connecticut marker number DC 7120 is registered to a Mr. Antony Horton of Saybrook.”
    â€œThat’s crazy. This is my car.”
    â€œA man of your age jumping a sports car. That’s kid stuff.”
    On the small rear seat of the car Lyon could see several leather camera cases, light meters and several parcels that definitely weren’t his. He had the wrong car. Simultaneously he and the trooper half-turned as a line of four Murphysville cruisers braked to a stop in front of the sports car. Chief Rocco Herbert unwound from the rear car and walked slowly back toward Lyon.
    â€œNeed help?” the Chief asked the trooper.
    â€œA hot car, Chief. But he’s clean. I’ll book him at the Middle-town Barracks.”
    â€œA forty-year-old man jumping a sports car. That’s kid stuff,” Rocco said.
    â€œThat’s what I told him, sir. He must be a sickie.”
    â€œNo doubt about it.”
    â€œDamn it all, Rocco. Tell this joker who I am.”
    â€œBrace, mister.” The young trooper shoved him against the side of the car.
    â€œIs that your car?” Rocco asked.
    â€œWell, no. But it looks like mine.”
    â€œGrand Theft—Auto will get you two to five,” Rocco said, and Lyon could see the twitch of one cheek as the Chief bit his lip. “However,” he continued, “I might make a deal.”
    â€œDamn it all, Rocco, no deal, no blackmail.”
    The trooper clacked a handcuff around Lyon’s right wrist and reached for the other wrist. Lyon heard the snuff of retained laughter from the circle of police officers surrounding him, and then the cackle of Rocco Herbert as he leaned against the car in a paroxysm of gargantuan giggles.
    Lyon’s car pulled to a stop between the cruisers, and a very irate police photographer rushed over to examine his car.
    â€œI know him,” the Chief said to the trooper. “He’s nuts, but harmless. Wrong car—mistake.”
    â€œHe was, speeding, sir.”
    â€œWrite him on that. He’s a menace on the highways,” Rocco said.
    â€œVery funny,” Lyon said as the trooper undid the handcuff and the photographer handed him his car key. “Terribly funny.”
    â€œI thought so,” Rocco said as he went back to his cruiser. “See you Monday.”
    Nutmeg Hill was built in 1780, some said by a Black Irishman who had made his fortune in the Triangle Trade. For 150 years after the death of its builder the house had been the home of a farming family who scrabbled a living from the marginal soil until younger heads left the land to make rifles and cannons in