The Daisy Ducks Read online

  "Yes. I was sorry to hear that he's been . . . not well. I hope he's better now."

  "Well," she answered, massaging her lower lip with a thin gray hand, "it's just hard to say right yet how he'll turn out. He seems a'mighty glad to be home here in the mountains. I think that helps a body more than anything else . . . being home, that is."

  "Do you think he'd mind if I stopped by?"

  She kept rubbing her lower lip and staring off down the cove with a worried expression. She seemed to be deciding something and asked me to have a seat on one of the metal porch chairs. I had seen these on almost all the porches in the South: metal armchairs painted green or gray, with a back like a giant scallop shell. I sat down. Through the curtained window I could see her talking on the phone. Five minutes later she was back on the porch.

  "You can go on down there. Second house on this side of the road. Her name is Sairy."

  I thanked the widow and left. At the second house I parked the bike and walked up to the porch. This house was in fine repair. It had shutters that were painted canary yellow. The porch railings and screen spindles were gothic gingerbread, freshly painted. Sairy Royce—I assumed her name was really Sarah—came to the door and opened it halfway. She seemed torn between welcoming me with open arms and kicking me off the porch.

  "Mrs. Royce? I'm Dr. Charles Adams. Your son Bill and I have a mutual friend, a man Bill was with in the army."

  "Bill was in the air force, mister. And why are you here?"

  "Another friend of Bill's is missing, and I was hoping to ask your son when he last saw him."

  She looked me up and down.

  "Your name is Adams?"

  "Yes ma'am."

  She opened the door and asked me inside.

  "I know some of your kinfolk, Mr. Adams. They's a whole bunch of Adamses over to Shooting Creek. Nice folks. You sit down and I'll fetch you some tea."

  So she did. Perhaps she thought I was going to call on my kinfolk as well, since I was in the neighborhood. She brought the tea and some cookies, sat down in a straight-back chair with a woven seat, and looked at me keenly. Sairy Royce was pretty, with bright blue eyes under iron gray hair. Her teeth were perfect. Too perfect.

  "You're not from the war, Mr. Adams? Billy hasn't never met you?"

  "No ma'am, he hasn't. But I've been in touch with several of the men he knew in the war. Is he here now?"

  "Oh no. He's out working. I think work is the best thing for him. He and some friends bought an old bottomland farm nearby and they're working it. He usually comes home for dinner, which is in about three hours. But I don't know if it would be good for him to see you or not. You know, the memories of what all happened to him might come a-stormin' back in his mind, you see."

  "I understand. And I wouldn't want that either. What exactly did happen to him anyway? Did he ever tell you?"

  "Oh Lord yes. He talks to me about it, but only me. His daddy lives down in Georgia now, hasn't been home in fourteen years. So there's only the two of us. He sees his cousin Eddie—that's the house you was just at up the cove—and his other friends, is about all. But anyway, what happened to Billy that made him so sick was later on, just before we pulled down the flag and got out of there. When the Communists moved in on Saigon. All those people and children murdered . . . and all the things that he'd worked so hard for and risked his life for . . . it was just too much for Billy for a while. So he spent some time in a special hospital in the Philippines and got home last July—like a gift from God. And I thank the Lord ever day for it. No more fightin' for Billy. He still hunts a lot. We all do here in the mountains. But no more killin'."

  "Amen," I said.

  "Amen."

  "Listen, why don't you let me write down some names on a slip of paper. When Bill comes home for lunch, show him the names, and if he'll talk with me, fine. If not, I'll go back where I came from."

  She said that sounded fair. I remembered what Pete and Jimmy had told me about being too pushy with these people. I told her I would phone her shortly after noon, to see what Bill wanted to do. I thanked her for the hospitality and left. I wondered how I was going to kill the three hours until lunchtime—called dinnertime in the South—as I left Royce Cove Road for the highway. When I got back into town, I realized it would be handy to know where the farm was that Royce had bought. Of course, if I'd asked his mother it would have set her on edge. I needed to fade back into the bush and observe unseen. The more I thought of this approach the better it sounded . . . and the more I realized my bike was very conspicuous. A bright metallic-red German motorcycle with a Massachusetts plate does tend to stand out a bit in the Smoky Mountains off season. I took my steel thermos bottle into the diner I'd visited earlier and had the waitress drop two teabags into it, some milk and sugar, and top it off with hot water. It was now ten. With nothing else to do, I headed back to where Royce Cove Road left the twisty highway and turned off the road into a copse of thick trees opposite the mouth of the cove. There was no sun in there, and the morning was chilly anyway. I took a space blanket from my saddlecase, folded it twice, and used it for a seat. The tea would also help keep me warm. I had my binoculars out, too. I sat and waited. In the two hours I sat there, four cars came and went. Two pickups, a station wagon, and a sedan. One of the pickups, a tan Ford with a long antenna, swept up the cove road just before twelve. I couldn't see who was at the wheel. Ten minutes later I left my observation post and stopped at a gas station to call Sairy. She answered, saying Bill would see me, but only briefly. I returned to the house. The first thing that caught my eye was the tan pickup in the driveway. Sairy came to let me in. She said that Billy was in the back room, listening to records.

  "He tuckers easy, Mr. Adams. Please don't stay too long."

  Bill Royce rose from the couch to greet me as I walked into the sunporch. He was taller than I, but not as tall as his air force comrade, Fred Kaunitz. His hair was light brown and very thin, long and brushed back, which accentuated his near-baldness. He wore aviator glasses with steel frames. The first thing I noticed about Bill Royce was his eyes. All the other Ducks I had met had flat eyes. Dead eyes. Eyes that revealed the total lack of emotion and tenderness in the mind and soul behind them. Eyes that could watch a man die on the stake without flinching. But this pair of gray-green eyes that looked into mine were sensitive and—in the words of Mike Summers—idealistic. He looked studious, thoughtful, and caring. And that, I decided, is why he couldn't take it. That's why his soul had cracked under the horror of Southeast Asia.

  "I can still remember most of it, Mr. Adams," he said as we sat down. "They gave me ECT treatments at first, but your memory comes back."

  He took the last sip from a can of root beer and tossed it into the wastebasket. Royce had barely a trace of Southern accent.

  "Just call me Doc, Bill. Most people do."

  The record was playing a Chopin piano piece. "I can remember almost all of it. I just don't like to think about it. Have you seen any of the other guys on the patrol?"

  "Yes, three of them, including your leader, Roantis. By the way, about eight weeks ago, he was shot while leaving my house. He almost died. We're still trying to figure out who did it. Do you have any ideas?"

  "No. Absolutely not. I haven't been around soldiering now in years. I've lost touch. Is he going to recover fully?"

  "Probably. He's especially anxious to find Ken Vilarde. He wants to make contact with him."

  Royce looked down and shook his head sadly.

  "And while I was sick in Manila, and being put back together again, piece by piece, cell by cell, he didn't make contact with me. None of them did."

  Offhand, I couldn't think of an appropriate response, so I looked down at the brown shag carpet and listened to Chopin.

  "Ken Vilarde . . . Who knows? I thought he had decided to be a career man. On my last patrol through Cambodia with the Daisy Ducks, that's when I knew I never wanted to be a career man."

  "What happened on that last run?"

>   "Well, we helped destroy a village."

  "You mean old Siu Lok's village?"

  He looked at me quickly, sharply.

  "Who told you? Roantis?"

  "Yes. He said the village was about to be overrun by Khmer Rouge guerrillas. You arrived in time to save it, at least temporarily."

  "That part is true. But I think ultimately we were as much responsible as the Khmers. That's what makes the whole thing so sad."

  "I've heard that war generally is."

  "You've never been in war? In action?" he asked me.

  "No."

  A thin film of sweat had formed on Bill Royce's upper lip. He wiped it off with the back of his hand and sniffed, then scratched his nose nervously. He excused himself and headed for the john, returning a few minutes later with another can of root beer, which he sipped in small doses. He kept sniffing and sipping for a while. I sensed that the fatigue and strain of the interview was beginning to take a toll. What the hell, I thought, I may as well ask the question.

  "Bill, do you recollect taking anything from that village after your first visit? That is, before the Khmer Rouge came back and tortured old Siu Lok to death?"

  He looked up in surprise.

  "He told you the Khmer Rouge tortured Siu Lok? Hmmm . . . That's interesting, Doc, because I'm not sure it happened that way at all. I'm not saying it didn't, or couldn't have . . . I'm just saying it's a little strange. You see, when we went back the second time, Roantis and Vilarde went on ahead. They told the rest of us to wait and they'd signal if they needed help. We were bushed anyway, so we went to earth and crashed for a couple hours. Before long, here comes Ken and Liatis back, saying that the Communists had apparently killed the old chief. But they never saw it happen. And the funny thing was, when we all went walking through the village again, everybody there was terribly afraid of us. They gave us everything we asked for immediately—not making excuses or stalling like villagers usually did. They wouldn't look us in the eye. I just had a strange feeling."

  "Are you saying it's possible that Roantis and Vilarde killed the old man?"

  Royce paused and sniffed, scratched his nose again, and wiped his face. He tapped his feet on the shag rug. He ran his hand through his hair in agitation.

  "No. I'm not saying it. I'm saying this, Doc: in that jungle there, a million miles from home or friendlies, anything could happen. Those villagers looked very scared our second pass through. Very scared. We all commented on it. I don't know. I just got thinking afterward, why did those two go on alone? Why weren't we all together, like the first time?"

  “Okay, and you took nothing from the villagers on the first pass-through?"

  "Certainly. We always did if they were willing. We needed food."

  "Anything else? Any valuables?"

  "No. There was nothing in the village of any value I could see."

  "That's funny, Bill, because Roantis said you all split up a potload of community relics on the first visit there. Kaunitz and Summers say the same thing. Now you say there were none."

  "If the others took anything, they sure didn't tell me."

  "Did you ever see anything strange in Roantis's pack?"

  "No. I didn't go looking in his pack."

  "Uh, how soon after the second visit to Siu Lok's village were you lifted out?"

  "The next night, I think. Or maybe the night after. We were heading west that trip, and the chopper came and got us." I sat there in the sunporch staring at the shag carpet for about a minute. What the hell was going on anyway? All the versions of the story were different, which was understandable, considering the lapse of time. Yet Royce's version differed markedly from the others. Considering his recent ill health and the other men's stories, I shouldn't believe him. But I did. At least, I was convinced he was telling the truth as he was able to reconstruct it. I decided to take a big chance. I excused myself and went outside to the bike, then returned with the photograph in my hand. I showed it to Royce, whose upper lip was weeping again.

  "What's that supposed to be?" he asked.

  "It's a religious idol, a statue of Siva, which Roantis took from the village, a gift from grateful Siu Lok."

  "And you believe it?"

  "Why wouldn't I?" I answered. But the answer didn't satisfy me. I had had vague doubts about the statue before, and now they seemed stronger and more focused.

  "Well, for one thing, a statue this big and heavy would be noticeable in a rucksack. The Ducks traveled light, as the others must have told you. Secondly, you don't see Hindu deities in Cambodia or Vietnam; they're Buddhist countries. It would be like finding a Lutheran in Mexico. Know what I mean?"

  "I know what you mean. Listening to you, I sense a college education. Right?"

  "Oh yeah. I had a full academic scholarship to UNC. Did some post-grad work too. Then along came Vietnam and I wanted to be a hero. I always wanted to fly, so I joined the air force, then volunteered for all the special training available. Except for jump school, which was hell, the rest was interesting, almost fun. I shouldn't have done it, Doc. Should not. It's wrecked my life."

  He paused to wipe his lip and sniff.

  "Assuming this statue thing is bogus—why, I wouldn't know—can you think of any object that could have been taken from the village that would be worth a lot of money?"

  He thought for a long time before answering.

  "I can't think of any object, Doc. But I can think of a substance, especially when I think of Cambodia."

  "And?"

  "Pure opium, in brick form. It's been cultivated for centuries In Cambodia. They dry the resin into bricks, like hash, and sell to smugglers who sneak it into Marseilles, where they turn it into heroin."

  "How much would a couple of bricks be worth?" I asked.

  "A lot." He sighed. "I couldn't name a figure. But let me tell you: we saw a few poppy fields in Cambodia. Those peasants need the bread—they still grow the stuff."

  "From what you've said, I could believe that Roantis is not an honest man. But having known him for about six years, I have no reason to think this. Though I'm not about to let him slide, if you know what I mean. Why do you think Liatis is lying?"

  "I'm not saying he is. Roantis was a good soldier—that's why he was picked for team leader. We weren't paid well for risking our necks, either. Therefore, he's got to be a little honest. No crook would have taken it on. But I will say this: special operations is hairy stuff. You've got to think on your feet. Truth becomes a relative thing. The rule book goes out the window. Follow? A lifetime of doing that stuff can make you say and do all sorts of things most people wouldn't do. That's all I'm going to say about it."

  He stood up and offered his hand. Civil enough, but the message was clear: the interview was ended. We shook hands. On the way out, I made what must have appeared to be a strange request.

  "Did you wear braces growing up?" I asked.

  "You mean on my teeth? No."

  "That's interesting. Your bite is perfect. May I look at your teeth a second? Do you mind? It helps me in my profession."

  He complied. I had him bite down three times. Amazing fit. "Good-bye, Bill. Thanks a lot for your time. I apologize if I put you through any trauma. And listen: if you hear of the whereabouts of Vilarde or Jusuelo, would you call me collect at the number on this card? Thanks."

  "Sure. What are you going to do now?"

  "I guess I'll turn around and do a little sightseeing on my way home to Boston. Might as well. I'll say hello to Roantis for you."

  I said good-bye to Sairy, who was knitting in the living room, and left. It was not even one o'clock. I went back into Robbinsville and ate at a fast-food joint. Over the coffee I had myself a longish think. Royce's version of the village massacre was interesting, and credible too. Royce seemed intelligent, sensitive, and sincere. I should probably call up Roantis and give him hell for sending me on a wild goose chase, even though I'd come down on my own.

  But I didn't. Because two things about Mr. Royce had me thi
nking. One was the condition of his hands. I felt the right hand as we shook good-bye. He had that horny ridge of callus running along the side of it. Roantis still had his, but he was a martial arts instructor. Even Kaunitz and Summers had lost theirs. Not Bill Royce.

  The second thing was a vague suspicion that began gnawing at me as soon as the interview began. The sweat on Bill's lip. The runny, itchy nose, and most especially the craving for sweet soft drinks. The glance I got inside his mouth, and the damage to the teeth and gums, confirmed my hunch. You can tell an awful lot about a person by looking in his mouth. More than once, after doing minor surgery on a high school student, I found myself having to make a painful, but vital, phone call to the parents. But when you see those symptoms, and the condition of the teeth, you know.

  Bill Royce was a heroin addict.

  15

  I KNEW HOW I could find out where Bill Royce's farm was without alerting him or anyone else. The Graham County Courthouse was easy to find. It was just down the street from the Robbinsville Police Department. The police department was simply a blue door on the street. It appeared to be a one-room department. I suppose the total police force was about three men. I went to the front desk of the courthouse and asked where I could find the real estate transactions for the past year. Since all real estate transactions are a matter of public record, it is the duty of any county clerk's office to show them to interested parties. In twenty minutes I was sitting down in front of voluminous records detailing every sale and title transfer in the county. It didn't take long. One William R. Royce had purchased forty acres of bottomland from one Randall J. Plemmons on September 22. Six months previous. The farm property, complete with dwelling and two outbuildings ("herein described") was in a valley seven miles northwest of town. I rode out there and had a peek. I saw the place briefly from the highway. Most of the farm was the wide valley, with a bottom that was ironing board flat. That was extremely rare in these mountains. A stream zigzagged lazily through the valley. That meant nice topsoil. All in all, a prize bit of farmland. I didn't park the bike. I knew that Royce or his buddies would spot it immediately, and I wanted him to think I really was returning to Boston. I headed back to Asheville to trade in the bike, if only temporarily.