The Pied Piper of Death Read Free

trespassing on Piper property.”
    â€œPeyton Piper picks shit,” a voice yelled from the crowd.
    A few of the guards swallowed laughs under the withering glare of the supervisor.
    A police siren sounded in the distance.
    â€œRush the fascist pigs!” someone yelled.
    The security force’s orchestrated attack had changed the protesters into a cohesive mob that now operated with a herd instinct. Without command, they began to move slowly toward the barricade. The guards thrust their clubs straightforward in proper crowd control technique, only to find the movement ineffectual as the continual press of bodies shoved them aside. The thin line of security personnel slowly fell back toward the gate.
    â€œThis is your final warning!” the lieutenant shouted through the bullhorn.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, shut up, Harry,” a guard to the right of the supervisor said in a loud aside. “Warning before what? Before we open up with machine guns or call out the Cossacks, for God’s sake?”
    â€œYou’re a fink, Daddy!” a young girl with ripped knees in her jeans and long black hair hanging down her back shouted from her seat on the trunk of the Wentworth car.
    The lieutenant of the security forces looked visibly shocked. “What in the hell are you doing with those creeps, Gretchen?” he yelled at the raven-haired young woman. “You’re supposed to be in class.”
    â€œThis is like a field trip in consciousness raising,” the girl shouted at her father amid murmurs of approval from surrounding protesters.
    â€œLet’s hang Piper!” a clear voice echoed over the group.
    â€œGet the bastard!” was the mutual agreement of the crowd as they surged forward.
    The security guards’ battle line wavered a moment and then broke as many of the men crowded on the bed of the pickup and were hastily driven back through the gates. Small clumps of remaining guards began to fight with the protesters.
    â€œWait! Stop!” Bea yelled. Her voice was lost in the din. She reluctantly climbed down from the car. “For God’s sake,” she said to Lyon. “They came to protest destruction and now they’re out for blood.”
    A police car with a flashing dome light turned into the lane.
    As everyone’s attention turned toward the approaching vehicle, a security guard took the opportunity to smash a middle-aged woman in the side of the face with the head of his club. She dropped to the pavement like a silent stone.
    Bea Wentworth, whose curiosity was not piqued since she knew who was driving the Murphysville police cruiser, was the only one to witness the assault. She dashed forward and knelt beside the fallen woman.
    The remaining guards took the new event as an opportunity to regroup and form a new if shorter battle line across the face of the gate. The cruiser moved slowly through the crowd and stopped when its nose touched the sawhorse barricade.
    Police Chief Rocco Herbert slowly unwound from the driver’s seat. Rocco was an extremely large man with a craggy face. He was too big to be a professional football linebacker, although guard or tackle might have been a suitable position. The chief’s large six-foot-six frame carried closer to 300 than 200 pounds. His massive bulk did not slow his reflexes, and he could move with a surprising alacrity if the situation warranted.
    Rocco walked quietly toward the mansion’s gate. He slowly turned his head, viewing one side of the lane then the other. Occasionally he nodded at those he recognized. He stopped a few feet from the line of guards and turned to face the crowd.
    â€œOkay. Break it up! Everyone go home!” He did not raise his voice, but its timbre seemed to carry easily above the subdued crowd.
    As the large police chief moved past him, Lyon shook his head. “We’ve got a medium-size riot here and you’re the only cop the town can spare?”
    Rocco turned