The Daisy Ducks Page 19

  "Father, you can come in now," said a tired physician in a disheveled smock. He beckoned to the priest, who entered the room and sat down by the bed near the window. I looked in and could see the pilot, his head bandaged, lying motionless. But he turned his head when he saw the priest. He appeared to be just regaining consciousness. The priest rose from the chair and drew the screens around the bed. The doctor closed the door and faced us. When all the reporters had their notepads ready, he began to speak.

  "The patient, identity as yet unknown, has suffered multiple injuries as a result of the plane crash early this morning. In addition to many lacerations and fractures, there are two serious injuries: a skull fracture and a punctured lung. The lung was filling with fluid until midmorning, then it stopped. We are getting it under control now and are optimistic. Skull fractures, as you may imagine, are always serious, as there is the possibility of brain damage. However, at this time, intercranial pressure is normal, which indicates no inflammation of tissue or infection as a result of the injury. The preliminary EEGs we've done indicate no brain damage, at least at a substantial level, although we'll need several days to a week to get the entire story. Tomorrow, we plan to transfer the patient to St. Joseph's Hospital in Asheville to undergo a CAT scan. He will probably remain there for the duration of his hospital stay."

  "So you expect full recovery?" I couldn't help asking.

  "Frankly, I can't see any reason why he shouldn't recover fully within a few months, barring complications, of course."

  Well, I felt like a million bucks on hearing that news. With a private sigh of relief, I sat down on one of the chairs. I stared at the floor awhile and breathed deeply. One of my big problems appeared to be gone. I saw the door open and the priest walk down the corridor. The press followed the attending physician partway down the hall and formed a circle around him. I saw him talking to the reporters, gesturing with his hands and pointing to his head and neck and his chest.

  I looked into the room again. Mr. Fly-by-night seemed to be resting comfortably. I went in for a closer look. Hispanic, yes. The man was sleeping with a pleasant look on his face. A beatific look. Prayer works wonders. But he was going to be disappointed indeed when he awoke to find local, state, and federal law enforcement officers waiting to question him. I looked at the big bandage on his head. Nasty. I could also see some of the strips of adhesive tape on the upper part of his chest. They'd wrapped him up tight as a mummy. There were other smaller bandages all over his arms and one on his neck. No doubt a lot of the cuts had required sutures. And yet his face wore a rapt smile. Yes, prayer works wonders.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  I turned to see a nurse standing in the doorway. As usual, this question did not mean that she wanted to help me. It meant, What the hell do you think you're doing?

  "Ah, yes. I am Charles Adams, a physician who happened to be at the crash site early this morning. I stopped by to find out how the patient is doing."

  "He's fine. Now I got to ask you to leave. How'd you get in here anyway?"

  I explained I had straggled in with the press.

  "You ain't supposed to be here then. I think you better —"

  "I understand. Thank you. By the way, what analgesic are you administering, may I ask?" I said, pointing to the I.V. bottle.

  "We're not giving any analgesic. Not until he wakes up."

  "Right, that's the usual procedure. But he was regaining consciousness a few minutes ago and now look. He's in a deep sleep. And look at his face. Certainly, even in semiconsciousness, he would be in some discomfort."

  The nurse looked down at the sleeping man. Without a word, she drew the screens around the bed.

  "Look Dr. Whatever-your-name-is, he's sleeping nice. Let's let him sleep, okay?"

  I followed her out of the room and we shut the door. I walked down the corridor, past the police guard, down the steps, and toward the reception hall. As I approached the front desk, the phone on it rang. The receptionist nodded and covered the phone with her hand, looking at me.

  "Are you the gentleman who was just upstairs with the crash victim?"

  I nodded.

  "The doctor would like to speak with you for a minute. Would you mind waiting here?"

  I sat down in the little room again. The door opened and the doctor came in. He was staring at me intently. Behind him was the police officer who had been sitting in the corridor. He was standing in the doorway, filling it.

  "I am Dr. Gayle," he said. "And your name is?"

  I told him.

  "And you are a bona fide physician?"

  I nodded.

  "The problem is, Dr. Adams, that the patient is dead. He died less than ten minutes ago. And you were the only one with him at the time."

  "Sir," said the officer, stepping forward, "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come along with me. Now lessee here . . ." He fished out a plastic card and began to read it aloud: "You have the right to remain silent. If you do not remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you are unable to —"

  "Dr. Gayle, would it be possible to go back upstairs for a minute or so? With the officer, of course?"

  He said he didn't see why not. The officer followed, completing his spiel from the Miranda decision. Back in the dead pilot's room, I explained my earlier curiosity to Dr. Gayle, who confirmed that no painkillers whatsoever had been administered.

  "Before you shut the door on the patient and the priest," I said, "he was regaining consciousness. I saw him move his head. Shortly afterward he was in a deep sleep and obviously in no discomfort. Considering the extent of his injuries, I suspected a strong analgesic. Since you did not give any, I now suspect something else."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as heroin. A massive dose. And we both know how it could have easily been given."

  Dr. Gayle examined the top of the latex I.V. tube just beneath the bottle. Squeezing the rubber between his fingertips, he found the tiny hole where the syringe had been inserted. This is standard procedure for additional medication, as it does away with the need for additional injections in the patient's arm.

  "The priest?"

  "Yep. Only he wasn't, of course. Have you ever seen that priest before?"

  "No. I assumed he came from out of town because he spoke Spanish."

  "Wel1, he came here to kill the pilot, and he succeeded. He injected the tube with a lethal dose, knowing it would take a minute or two to reach the pilot's vein. The killer knew he had enough time to disappear."

  "Let me ask you a question," said the officer. "How do we know you didn't kill him?"

  "What reason would I have to kill him? The man who did killed him because the pilot would eventually talk, revealing him and his partners."

  "Uh-huh. And how do we know you 're not one of the partners?"

  Good question. I thought for maybe twenty seconds, then decided to go out on a limb. After all, it appeared that I was going "downtown" whether I liked it or not. Undoubtedly the state trooper with the notebook would appear on the scene sooner or later. I had to cooperate now, and spill the beans totally.

  * * *

  I sat at the table in the Robbinsville police station. It was only a few minutes before the sheriff, Roger Penland, came over from his office behind the courthouse down the street to look in on me. Right neighborly of him. Then, after we'd been there forty minutes, my old friend came sashaying in: the state trooper with the R. J. Gold chaw in his cheek. Gee, the place was friendly. Southern hospitality is real.

  "Well, lookey here," he said. "If it idn't the doctor who's always trying to git over to Gatlinburg. Well, they told me on the radio you wanted to see me."

  He introduced himself as James Hunnicutt, and I shook his hand.

  He sat down at the table with the local police. All of them stared at me.

  "I'd rather you not tape this conversation," I said, "but I suppose I don't have the final say on that. But I am wai
ving the right to a lawyer. I am trusting you, and I hope you trust me likewise. Mr. Hunnicutt, I'll tell you straight off I was not trying to get to Gatlinburg last night —"

  "Early this morning," he corrected me, looking at the notebook. "Three forty-seven A.M. And I didn't think you's a-goin' to Gatlinburg . . . or Knoxville neither."

  "No. I was going to visit the Royce farm property to retrieve some personal items I had left there the previous night."

  The men around the table looked at each other. Two of them took out notebooks.

  "You're admitting to trespassing?" asked Hunnicutt.

  "Yes. Trespassing only, not breaking and entering. I stole nothing. But I did come across some interesting equipment there which you ought to take a look at. That plane was not there by coincidence."

  Then I proceeded to tell Sheriff Penland, Sergeant Hunnicutt, and the local oflicer what I had found while another patrolman placed two phone calls, one to Brian Hannon and another to Joe's office. By the time he returned, the station had received a preliminary report from the county morgue that the bloodstream of the dead pilot had contained enough heroin "to fell a timber-haulin' mule."

  The men then turned to the junior officer, who had just returned to the table.

  "You git through?" asked Hunnicutt.

  "Yes sir. I caught 'em both in, too. The police chief, Hannon, told me he could vouch for his character, but not for his intelligence or common sense."

  The men around the table stared at me.

  "Umm. And what did the other man say? The state trooper?"

  "Same thing, sir. Said that Dr. Adams was not a killer. But he said that any other damn fool thing he might have done, well, he could believe it."

  They stared at me again. I shrugged and swiveled in the chair. When I got back to Concord, I would get them. If I got back. Who could tell? Maybe I'd be doing two-to-five on a chain gang. Oh well, at least I'd stay in shape and learn some good songs . . .

  "All right, doctor. Let's go over to the Royce place. I can have a warrant real fast. But there better be something there, hear? Bill Royce and his family are friends of ours. And he's a veteran of Vietnam. I mean, I like to tell you, there better be a reason."

  I assured them there would be, but I was careful to mention Royce's positive qualities as we got into the patrol cruiser and headed for the farm. On the way, I filled them in on the exploits of the Daisy Ducks, the shooting of Roantis, and my involvement in the affair, which had taken me to Texas and Carolina. We went to the farm first. I led them over to the farm road and began pacing the edge of it. Any second now I would see one of those glass eyes of the runway lights . . . any second . . .

  But after ten minutes it was clear they weren't there. I remembered that they had been stuck into the ground on metal spikes. All Royce and his men had to do was yank them out. And the cable connecting them to the power source? Yanked out too. I pointed out the shallow furrows in the soil that marked the cable's eruption and disappearance. The officers were curiously unimpressed. Strange, I thought, for men who were supposedly well trained.

  Next, I led them over to the old pump house. Empty. Finally, the tree with the antenna and the control box. Gone. I searched the pine tree carefully and found the faint marks in the rough, resinous bark where nails and staples had been driven into it. But they cared not a fig. I ask you, is this law enforcement?

  "I know this doesn't look good," I said to the four stone faces giving me the once-over, "but believe me —"

  "We don't, " growled Hunnicutt.

  And it didn't get any better when we went into the old tobacco barn, either. Fastened to the tractor was an honest-to-God drill planter, complete with seed cans. And there were sacks of seed around the walls, too. Damn!

  "Well, let's go back to the cruiser, boys," said Hunnicutt. "Hell, at least Bill didn't know we was here. It'd be right embarrassin' if he'da known."

  "Can you wait a second? There's one more thing I'd like to check," I said, heading over to the brush-covered knoll at a fast walk. But I knew the answer before I even got there. The binoculars and thermos bottle were gone. I wasn't surprised.

  Back at the station, they had me wait in a cell while they all sat around the front table and had a powwow. The cell was unlocked and the door slid open. I'll give them credit for that. But it wasn't a nice place.

  I had myself a little think while I sat on the prisoner's cot. Life is funny. You never know what curves it's going to throw you. I mean, take my situation: three months ago I was getting fresh with lovely Janice DeGroot in the phone closet of my elegant house in New England. I was a hot shot. Now I'm sitting in a jail cell in North Carolina while my wife is going out with her high school sweetheart. Yep, life is really funny. Life is a regular riot, is what it is.

  I had stamped three cockroaches to death before the door opened and Sheriff Penland walked in. He returned with the announcement that while they weren't going to detain me, I had certainly better stay put in North Carolina—in either Asheville or Graham County. And I had better let the authorities know where I could be reached at all times.

  "We'll be a-watchin' you, Doc," said Sheriff Penland. "Don't do nthin' silIy."

  I answered indignantly, saying I was not in the habit of doing silly things.

  So I went back to the campground and told the perplexed Mr. Hardesty that I'd be staying another night. I hooked the rig up again and sat and thought, then called Mary. She was home by now. Or supposed to be. Who knew? Maybe she and Leon Kondracki were on the interstate this very minute, heading for Niagara Falls ....

  "Hello?"

  "Mary! Thank God, you're home!"

  "Hi honey. Of course I'm home. Where else would I be?"

  "Oh, anywhere. Niagara Falls maybe . . ."

  "Charlie, are you okay?"

  "No, and I'll tell you why."

  I told her exactly what had happened.

  "Charlie, I warned you not to use your best judgment. But you went and did it anyway. Now let me ask you this: what's going to happen when Bill Royce comes looking for you?"

  "He wouldn't dare. He's in too much trouble already. And he knows that the law is watching me too. I'll just sit tight until Roantis and Summers show up, then let them take over.”

  "What makes you so sure Royce was involved with shooting Roantis?"

  "One: he was in the outfit. Two: he appeared stateside at the right time. Three: he's a crook and a drugrunner. Four: he's an addict now and desperate. Desperate for drugs and money to get them, both for himself and his pipeline. Five: hell, I don't need five. Four's good enough."

  "Charlie? Promise you won't do anything until they show up?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. And when they show, you head for New England."

  Then I had to give her the bad news about my having to stay in North Carolina until various matters, like murder, were resolved. Needless to say, she wasn't pleased. She said she was going to have a talk with her brother Joe, then she was going to call me back.

  "Mary, do you love me?"

  "I guess." She sighed. "But it's getting hard, pal. Real hard."

  Back in my RV, I realized how hungry I was; it was almost six, and I hadn't eaten all day. I set the fire going again under the big pot that held my half-completed New England dinner. When it was boiling, I added the vegetables to the meat and let it cook. I lighted a pipe and put coffee on. Things weren't so bad after all. While my dinner finished cooking, I read the new Sports Afield and looked outside in the dying light to watch the snow melt. More and more patches of ground were visible, and the trickle and wash of runoff grew louder and louder. It was what was going to happen back home in six or seven weeks. I wished I had some company. I missed Mary. And her absence was more painful not only because of recent events but because of the great distance. Being thirty miles away from a loved one is much easier than nine hundred. I missed Jack and Tony. I missed my dogs too. I would have felt a lot better with a couple of them lounging around the campsite. I took the coffee
mug and my pipe outside and sat on a picnic bench. The earth was soft and aromatic. But I still had the feeling that somebody had painted a set of giant concentric rings on the earth around my camper: it was a huge target, and I was sitting right in the center of it.

  I sat outside and ate two big bowls of the New England boiled dinner, spreading fresh horseradish all over the chunks of corned beef. By then it was dark and getting colder by the second. I quickly built a small campfire, then walked down to the office and asked Mr. Hardesty if anyone had called. He said no, which seemed a little strange. Where was Roantis?

  "Mr. Hardesty, has anyone called making a reservation for a hook-up site?"

  "Nope. Not a one. I guess if you hadn't come back, I'd of closed up."

  "Would you mind if I closed your gate and locked it until tomorrow morning? I got hassled by a biker gang on the road earlier today, and I think they might come here looking for me."

  He went outside, shut and locked the gate, and returned without uttering a word. I returned to the rig feeling a little relieved. Only a little because I knew in my heart of hearts that if Bill Royce and Company wanted to pay me a visit, they probably wouldn't come stomping in through the gate. Oh no. They would drop out of the sky, or come shooting down long ropes from the mountain peaks, or sneak in, snake-crawling on their bellies through the undergrowth, K-bar knives in teeth.

  Aw c'mon Adams . . . That stuff only happens in movies. I sat outside by the campfire and listened to the silence. The snow was mostly melted, but now the splash and tinkle of snow-melt had stopped too, and what snow there was left would remain through the night. The temperature dropped still more, and I went inside. It would have been enjoyable if Mary or the boys were with me. Or even Moe, and we could play chess and talk. I drew the curtains all around and read Scientific American for two hours. I drank a mug of hot water and bourbon to which I'd added lemon and honey. The hot toddy made me warm all over, and sleepy too. I realized as I crawled into the bunk that I'd had a rough day and it had left me exhausted.