The Daisy Ducks Page 17

  I walked into the trees. The ground began to rise. I looked for perhaps half an hour, afraid my batteries were going to give out, before I saw the cord again. This time the little devil was sneaking up a tree trunk. It went up the side of a straight pine, through a gray metal electrical box, and then joined a metal mast that appeared to be bolted to the tree. I don't know much about electronics, but it didn't take a genius to figure out that this end of the cord terminated in some kind of antenna. And the metal box? It looked like a fuse or switch box, the kind you see everywhere. It was chest high. I pulled the lever on the side of it and opened the door. I saw the end of the cable at the bottom and three wires coming from it—not the usual two, but three. One could have been a ground wire, but it didn't appear to be. Each wire end was connected to a different brass screw. There were some other gizmos in there too, and a "B-X" cable running out the top of the box to the whatever-it-was up in the tree. The inside of the box was dominated by a black plastic switch knob that was pointing to the right. I stared at it for about a minute until I couldn't stand it any longer. I turned the knob to the left to see what would happen.

  It was one of the two or three dumbest things I've ever done in my life.

  The whole valley lit up. Looking down the hill through the pines, I saw the two rows of bright lights. I turned the switch back immediately. Nothing happened. The lights continued to illuminate a big portion of Graham County. It looked like there were twenty squad cars down there.

  I flipped the switch back and forth repeatedly, but it was no use; the landing lights kept shining away like there was no tomorrow. And if the farm crew saw those lights and caught me on their property in the dead of night, for Charles Adams there would probably be no tomorrow. Nothing I could do would turn them off. There had to be some kind of automatic timing device that kept them on for a certain length of time no matter what happened to the switch. In a near-panic, I slipped my fingers beneath the ends of the cable and yanked. One of the wires came off its brass screw, and the lights finally went out.

  I could have monkeyed around with the cables and the box for quite a while trying to figure it out. Could have. I slammed the box shut and skedaddled.

  I mean, there are limits to stupidity—even mine.

  I walked briskly back toward the buildings. As I approached them, I thought again about all those lights. They had been on for half a minute or more. I was in trouble. That's when I realized that "walking briskly" probably wasn't going to do it. I went into a jog, then a trot. I kept the trot up all the way to the highway, where I saw two pairs of headlights streaking my way. Apparently even the trot wasn't fast enough.

  17

  I GOT almost to the highway before the lead car swept into the farm. A sedan. Dark green. Fairly recent model. Two drivers. The second auto went on up the road. It seemed older and mostly yellow. I looked at my watch. Quarter to five. What were they doing on the road at this hour? Did the lights draw them? Not from bed; the cars had appeared too fast. Maybe they were hunters or moonshiners. Were they Bill's friends, arriving at the farm early for an extra-full day's work? I doubted it. I stayed in the trees and watched the green car. I saw the headlights wink out and heard a door slam. I headed out to the main road and began a steady jog back to the camper. Whoever they were or whatever brought them, I didn't care to find out.

  Up ahead I saw my camper. I went up to it fast and was just lucky I heard something from the other side of it that made me stop. I sidestepped off the shoulder and went into the trees, creeping ahead. A car with its lights off was parked just ahead of my vehicle. Two men were leaning against the car and talking. A big dog stuck its head out of the driver's window and whined. One of the men went over to the window and petted the dog. Oh Jesus, don't let it out!

  I stayed in the trees and watched and waited. It was beginning to get light out, and I could see that the car was an old Ford, yellow and white. The men got inside and drove off down the road. I wanted to move fast now. Once inside the camper I started it, turned around, and headed back past the farm at a pretty good clip. Looked like nothing was happening there. Then, as I swept past the place and looked back at the valley, I remembered.

  My binoculars and thermos bottle were still under a bush on the little knoll.

  Would they find them? Who knew? But if they did, would they figure out who'd left them there? The answer to this was easy: yes, they would. Because yours truly, in the cautious and compulsive tradition of American property owners, had carefully inscribed the binoculars with name, address, phone, zip code—the works. Everything but my blood type was on those expensive German binoculars.

  Genius, Adams. Sheer genius.

  Just as I reached the outskirts of Robbinsville, a car caught up with me and passed at high speed. Was it one of the two that had pulled into the farm property? It didn't look like it. A sour face stared at me from the shotgun seat. In most of rural America, that's just a slang expression. Not so here.

  Having coffee at an all-night joint in town, I considered how to get my things back before it was too late. My watch said five-fifteen. There was still time. I could sneak back in there, retrieve the items, and leave before anyone was the wiser. I decided to try it. But back on the farmroad, another vehicle appeared in my side mirrors. Tan pickup truck. Moving very fast. Bill Royce himself shot past me on the narrow road. As he went by, I leaned far back in the seat so that my head was behind the window, out of sight. And with the overhang of the camper above me, I doubted if he could see me in his rearview mirror. He passed the farm road without turning in. Strange. There was nothing to do but follow him, which I did. About three miles farther up the road he made a left turn onto a narrow, rutted road with no sign. There was a mailbox there, painted white. Nothing else. I went on, turned around, and drove back to the faded white mailbox and took a picture of it. The mailbox had a name printed on it: Spivey. That was all. The road—if it could be called that—ran uphill fairly steeply. I returned to the farm again, but decided not to risk it. It would be impossible to hide the camper, and with the way my luck was running, Royce would return just as I reached the spot. "Use some sense for once," said a voice in my head. For once, I listened. I doubted very much if the cache would be discovered in a day; the little rise on which it was hidden was untouched by the plow, and from what I'd discovered, Royce and Company weren't that interested in plowing anyway. Would they discover the disconnected wire in the box? Maybe. So what if they did? It would look as if it had broken loose. I knew one thing for sure: I wasn't going near that box again.

  Well, I pulled into my little space at six-thirty, dog tired. I hooked up the required hoses and plugs, drank a big mug of coffee into which I'd poured two ounces of Scotch, climbed into the bunk above the cab, and dozed off.

  I woke up at two in the afternoon. I hate that time of day anyway, and the situation I found myself in didn't make it any better. I decided to see if the shower in my rig really worked. It did not; I hadn't switched on the water heater. I used the campground shower—not an enjoyable experience in March—and changed clothes. I was starved. I built a small campfire and sat watching it while the potatoes baked. I had chicken breasts marinating in a mixture of olive oil, Italian dressing, crushed garlic, lemon, and Parmesan cheese. When the fire was down to a cheery glow, I would broil them over it, basting them heavily. But for now I thought about what might happen and what I should do.

  One of the first puzzles concerned the two cars that had come streaking down the road just after the lights of the runway went on. Who were those guys? Friends of Royce and Company? If they were, Bill would find out about the lights. Knowing him and his background, he would follow up, and thoroughly. He would examine all the parts of his electrical system and find the disconnection in the box. What would he think? Would he assume it had just worked loose? No. Would he, could he, assume a raccoon had done the damage? Those critters are clever, and good with their mitts. But what coon would disconnect a wire, then close the door on the box again and
fasten it? Naw, nix on the coon theory. Gee, if only I'd left the box open . . . And that, I realized, is why criminals always return to the scene of the crime. They've screwed up some detail and are trying to erase it.

  Or Royce might become suspicious immediately, especially in light of my visit earlier the same day. This wasn't far out at all. It was, sad to say, highly probable. Then he would search the farm grounds from end to end and find my cache.

  If that happened, I somehow didn't think he'd snap his fingers, say "Aw shucks!" and go listen to Chopin.

  No. He would explode and come a-hunting me.

  This scenario was unpleasant, so I switched to another.

  Okay: the two cars at dawn don't know Royce. They were merely out for some nighttime frolic and saw the lights. Therefore Royce wouldn't find out about the malfunction and would continue business as usual. Therefore he wouldn't check the box, search the farm, or find the stuff I'd left behind. So I could mosey on back there in the wee hours of tomorrow morning and retrieve it. This I liked better. I opened a beer, lighted a pipe, and was feeling almost jovial.

  But then why was Royce on the road so early this morning? And what was that back road he turned in to? And also, even if the two jokers in their cars didn't know Bill Royce, what if they reported the strange lights to the sheriff? What then? And finally, all three vehicles got a damn good look at your movable digs, old buddy. They would recognize the camper if they saw it again. And one of those cars sure thought it was suspicious, the way you'd parked on the shoulder in the middle of the night and—

  "Oh shut up!" I shouted at the voice in my head, throwing another log on the fire. It popped and shot sparks and cheered me up. But one thing was for certain: I'd blown the expedition completely. As a nighttime recon man, I was a total washout. Roantis had been right. He'd warned me not to make contact, to leave that job to him.

  When the fire was ready, I put the chicken on. When it was done, I took it inside and sat at the little Formica dinette table and ate. There was a knock at the door, and I was on my feet and fishing for the Browning with a speed and determination that surprised me. Whatever illusions my conscious mind had managed to construct for me, the deeper centers of my brain weren't fooled one bit. I was in potential trouble, and I had reacted accordingly.

  "Dr. Adams, you got a phone call in the office," said Mr. Hardesty through the door. Relieved, I shelved the automatic and followed him there. I noticed it was colder outside and getting more so every minute.

  "Is it a woman?"

  "Naw suh. A man, talkin' funny, like he was born somewheres else."

  It was Roantis. Damn. I was hoping it'd be Mary. Why? Because I missed her. And she sounded too damn happy in Schenectady. I was hoping she missed me too, and—

  "Hey Doc. Mike and I are in Virginia. So far, the old wreck's holding up real nice."

  What had happened? I had picked up the phone without realizing it. I had Mary on my mind.

  "We'll be out your way by tomorrow night or sooner. Hey Doc, you there?"

  "Uh-huh," I said, and I told him about my nighttime misadventure. He listened awhile before he spoke.

  "You dint blow it, Doc. You did a good job. There's always a risk of something happening you don't expect, but you did fine. just don't go back there. I think Jusuelo must be in this somehow. I been thinking. Vilarde dint talk much with Royce. But he and Jusuelo were close."

  "I know. That's what Kaunitz told me. Said they used to speak Spanish all the time."

  "Right. So I'll bet Jusuelo's in the picture somewhere. Anyway, just sit tight. When we get to Robbinsville, we'll call you again."

  "Maybe. But I may not be here by then. If I'm not, I'll either be at the Holiday Inn in Asheville or else at the number I'm about to give you. Got a pencil?"

  I gave him Pete and Liz Sluder's phone number. Who could tell? It just might be an ideal place to lie low for a while if things got hot. No doubt Roantis thought all this precaution unnecessary. And well he might: I hadn't told him about leaving my binoculars at the Royce farm. I mean, he might have thought I was a bungling novice.

  I hung up and called the Brindelli residence in Schenectady. My mother-in-law, Anna Brindelli, answered. We chatted pleasantly for a few minutes. I noticed that Anna lapsed into Italian phrases a bit more often than she used to. The pleasantries over, I asked her to put Mary on the line. Anna told me Mary was out. Out where? She didn't know. Mary said she'd be home late. Out? Home late? What the hell was this?

  When I got back to the dinette table, the remains of my dinner were cold. It didn't matter; I seemed to have lost my appetite. I poured three fingers of Scotch into a tumbler to which I added some soda, no ice. I went outside to look at my dying fire. It was downright cold now. I saw little snowflakes blowing around the trees. Well, it figured. The campground was at thirty-five hundred feet. I'd been told that the high southern mountains routinely get snow in April. I went back inside, turned up the wall-mounted gas heater, and settled down for a long winter's evening. I sat smoking a pipe and reading and wondering about Mary. Then I wondered about the snow. When I went back to the farm later, I would leave tracks to and from the little knoll. And what if the snowfall was heavy and I got stuck on some back road? I tossed these and countless other thoughts around in my head until I grew tired of it. Then I wondered if I should call Mary. It was ten o'clock. What if I called and she still wasn't home? What then? Well, I wasn't going to call her.

  I stripped to my underwear and went up into the bunk. There were windows in front, and I had a good view of the campground. The older couple in the big motor home had departed. Now I was the only vehicle left. It was very cozy in that wide bunk. I had left a tiny light on in the camper, a little bulb near the sink. The heater was off, and I could hear the faint patting of snowflakes against the metal roof over me. The snowflakes were hard and small, almost like sleet. I propped my head up high on the pillow and gazed out the window at the snow falling on the campground.

  Out?

  Home late?

  * * *

  Waking up shortly after two, I found it hard indeed to get out of bed. The long bike ride and the midnight expedition were beginning to tell on me. I looked out the window: the campground was covered with white, and the snow was still falling. The flakes were bigger now and soft. There would be a sizable accumulation then, and that meant I was going to leave footprints on Bill's property. But better that than his finding my stuff. I made coffee and drank it along with a big Snickers bar. Then I lighted a pipeful of flake-cut Virginia tobacco. If these didn't get the bloodstream moving, nothing would. When I was almost fully conscious, I went outside to unhook the camper from its life support system. I paused as soon as I stepped down out of the vehicle. It was darker than the previous night; the cloud cover blocked most of the moonlight. But the fallen snow reflected and magnified what little light there was. I tried to remember when I'd last been outside. Had there been any snow on the ground when I went out to check the fire for the last time? No. The snow was beginning to fall, but the ground had been bare. I looked at the ground again. There was no mistaking the vague depressions in the snow. They weren't fresh tracks; the edges of the depressions were gently curved and smooth. But tracks they were. Human footprints. I followed them. How old were they? Making a rough estimate from the falling snow, I guessed less than an hour. The tracks led around the camper toward the far end of the campground.

  I went back inside, got the Browning and a battery lantern, and followed the tracks, holding the automatic down at my side as I walked. The tracks disappeared down the mountain. I didn't follow them, mostly because they weren't clearly visible in the undergrowth and dead leaves of the wooded mountainside. An expert could have followed them, but not me. So that's where the visitor had headed. Where had he come from? I went back to the camper and looked around. He had come from out of the woods behind the campsite, walked around the camper and stood awhile, and then walked over to the far end of the campground and gone down the mountains
ide where there was no trail. Why? Why go where there was no trail? Of course, I knew about the old trick of walking backward in the snow. The visitor could have sneaked around the campground in the deep woods, then walked backward to the camper from the far end, giving the appearance that he'd gone that way. But whatever his true direction or motive, it seemed as if he were just passing by and looked at the camper out of curiosity more than anything else.

  I heard the baying of a hound in the cold air. Then another, and another. A pack of hunting hounds on the run. What were they after? Bear? Coon? Boar? Or didn't they know? Were they just out enjoying the air and the new snow? Their voices became higher pitched, punctuated with sharp cries and yelps. They had something treed over in the next valley. Was anyone with them? There were a lot of questions I didn't have time to answer. I unhooked the rig and pulled out of the campground. If Mr. Hardesty saw the tire tracks, he might be curious about where I went in the dead of night. But if the snow kept falling, I knew that by the time I got back with my forgotten gear, it would cover them. And if by some chance my nighttime visitor hadn't wanted to be discovered, he would have reasoned likewise: that the falling snow would obliterate his tracks too. But I had arisen at two-thirty and seen them.