Buck Fever (12 page)

Poke and jab
, Katie thought, remembering what her dad told her.
Poke and jab
.

“Oh, good heavens, he’s got my little girl. Help, he’s kidnapped my baby!” her mother said, waving her hands, frantically running toward the vehicle speeding away.

“Ugh...son of a bitch,” the man said as a small hand, fingers rigid, thrust into his face and eyes. “I can’t see.” The car swerved to the curb. Katie lunged toward the open window, throwing her body out to the ground.

“Mommy, Mommy,” Katie yelled, her eyes filled with tears. Both knees were scrapped and bloody. Her mother grabbed Katie by the waist and held her as the car sped down the street. She struggled to see the license plate.

Her mother let go and ran after the car, yelling to stop. Katie could not understand why; she was okay...safe now.

~ ~ ~

“Look out,” Kottle shouted, “you’re in my lane!” She swerved her Honda gently left, avoiding a collision as she neared the Jefferson exit off I-75 heading into Detroit.

The attempted abduction flashed up from her subconscious during stressful moments. She patted her right knee, feeling a slight indentation left by a scar 17 years earlier. Although, the man was never identified, the police said she had a near photographic ability to retain facts. She would make a good police investigator someday, or maybe a lawyer, her dad would say. But, a reporter, no way, until she worked on the Michigan State University newspaper in college as part of an experiential class assignment. It hooked her into pursuing a journalism career; she loved working with facts and talking to diverse people. Today, she doubted that decision.

~ ~ ~

“About time,” Dingman said, as Kottle walked into the briefing room. He stood by a whiteboard, sticking small yellow notes to it and drawing lines connecting them. On another sheet of poster-size paper, he placed names of people involved. Porter sat at the long wooden conference table nearby with his notes and laptop open.

“I’m right on time, when did you guys start?” she asked, tapping her watch.

“Around six-thirty,” Porter said, winking and putting a finger to his mouth.

“Oh,” she murmured, remembering what Pillbock once advised her:
Get there earlier than the agreed time to keep others off guard and gain control
. She sat at the table across from Porter, removed her notes from her laptop bag and fumbled to catch up.

“Okay, we’ve identified these people so far: Harry Lopez and John Greppleton are hunters from Port Huron. Greppleton killed a deer with a bow and arrow. Lopez had an asthma attack due to the excitement of a doe attacking him, and Greppleton carried him out of the woods and transported him to a local hospital. From there he went to a Port Huron hospital, became delirious and spouted secrets of the universe, challenging Einstein’s ideas. Probably a reaction to a drug he was taking for post-Iraq-war trauma, doctor said. Then there’s Lickshill.”

“Do you have the guy who apparently recovered the buck from the woods? His name is Jack Hermanski,” Kottle said, smiling.

“Got it. Actually, there were three men in the woods: Jack Hermanski, George Montagno and Dillon Lacarter,” Porter said.

“Oh, must have missed that,” Kottle said.
Argh, what am I saying,
she stressed.

Dingman glanced at her and shook his head.

“I called Hermanski late yesterday, and he gave me the other two names. He said he’s encountered several bizarre events since he brought the deer home, and—”

“And, you and Kottle are going to talk to him this afternoon, right?” Dingman said.

“Ah...yeah,” Porter agreed.

“Good ‘nough. Lickshill, what do we know?”

“He was a retired lumberjack, fifty years old, had a wife and married daughter. A doe carried his one-year-old grandson into the woods. He was killed by chest perforations from a series of stabbings by a blunt object: could be antlers, eight points total,” Porter said.

“He wore brown work shoes, blue-cotton pants, a faded-blue work shirt, a brown jacket and a cap with LMA embroidered on it. A week-old white beard covered his face and he had thinning black and white hair. His sunken eyes were bloodshot,” Kottle said.

“Weight and height?” Dingman asked.

“I’d say around two hundred and fifty pounds, six feet.” Porter said.

“His hand...was...so cold...and...” Kottle mumbled.

“Excuse me, you held his hand?” Dingman said.

“He grabbed me...it was a reflex, and...” Kottle stood up to demonstrate.

“I told you about that, remember?” Porter said to Dingman.

Dingman stared at Kottle, watching her reaction. “And?”

“And?” She looked puzzled.

“And...come on...there’s more.”

“And his penis was missing, apparently bit off by some animal,” Porter said, deflecting the discussion away from Kottle.

“And...his hand was rough and callused...rough and callused.” Kottle mumbled. Her skin paled. She became rigid. Blood seeped from her left nostril.

“Hey, you okay?” Porter said, standing to offer help.

“I’m okay, it’s just a nose bleed,” Kottle said, pinching her nose and sitting back into a chair.

“I suspect you’re not up to the challenge of this assignment, my dear,” Dingman said, offering her a box of facial tissues.

“Another flashback?” Porter said.

“Yes...you don’t think...Lickshill...no, can’t be,” Kottle said, dabbing blood with a tissue.

“Don’t go there,” Porter whispered. He nodded sideways toward Dingman.

“Okay, okay,” she said, pushing Porter away. Kottle stood, held her noise and walked out of the briefing room toward the bathroom.

~ ~ ~

“Is she okay? Something you want to tell me?” Dingman said, patiently waiting ten minutes for her return.

“Having a dead man grab you is probably not something you want to remember,” Porter said.

“I just hope she’s going to help and not hurt our progress. We cannot afford to indulge her sensitivity to death. Know what I mean?”

“It won’t be a problem. I’ll talk to her.”

Dingman continued to write on the board as another ten minutes passed.

~ ~ ~

Kottle returned and sat down as if nothing happened.

“Do we need to describe the incident with the doe and the little girl? I have a couple of pages of related notes. Plus, there was a message drawn in the dirt next to Lickshill’s body: H-E-W-M-A-N.”

“Hewman?” Dingman said. “So, the man apparently had enemies. Who would say that to another human being, unless...” He backed up to the table making a dramatic gesture.

“Unless a non-human being scratched it into the dirt,” Porter said, grinning.

“Right. Hmm.”

“He’s a retired lumberjack. It probably means axe-swinging man. Just a play on words,” Kottle said. “Or maybe a general statement like kill all men.”

“I get it,” Dingman said. “It’s a play on words. Fascinating.”

Kottle looked puzzled.

“We talked about it before you got here,” Porter said.

“Oh,” Kottle said.
Jackass
, she thought. “Did you also discuss the fact that the doe hovering over the little girl in the woods scratched ‘I4I’ in the dirt, and Lopez has it on his license plate?”

“Whoa, that is interesting. Tell me more,” Dingman said, showing sudden interest.

The meeting continued as the three described people, places, timing and remarkable events until all facts were categorized and organized into a historical storyboard.

~ ~ ~

“Well, look at this,” Pillbock said, “three reporters actually working together and getting something done. He entered the room from his office.

“Good morning, sir,” Kottle said. Porter and Dingman nodded.

Pillbock walked to the entrance and shouted into the newsroom. “Murphy, Reilly, Justine and Morley, front and center. Look and learn!”

Four men shuffled away from their desks, each carrying notebooks, and briskly walked toward the conference room.

“Gentlemen, this is how it’s done. Cooperation and perspiration equal communication. Write it down. Dingman, tell them what you’re doing, why you’re doing it, and what you hope to achieve. Okay, people, get to work.” Pillbock retreated into his office as the four straight-faced men sat at the long table waiting for more words of wisdom.

Shit
, Dingman thought,
why me? Another waste of time.

Chapter 18

A
dark-blue hybrid Honda sedan pulled up the driveway near the building entrance.

“Are you ready for this?” Hermanski said.

“It’s a man and a woman,” Montagno said. “I thought it would be one person. They’re young, right out of grad school I’ll bet.”

“All this new accounting bullshit is creating an enormous demand for MBAs. Apparently, no hands-on experience is required,” Lacarter said, shaking his head.

~ ~ ~

“Hi, I’m Jeb Porter, this is Katie Kottle. We—“

“We’re expecting you. Your boss called late Friday and said you’d be here this afternoon,” Hermanski explained.

“He did? Oh, fine. We just want to ask a couple of questions to get the facts straight, and we’ll be on our way,” Kottle said.

“You don’t want to look at the books?” Montagno said, somewhat relieved.

“Not unless they add detail.” Porter said.

“Ah...no, we—“

“Okay, so you were all in this together, then? Tell us about your hunting trip,” Porter said.

“It was just a day off. Had nothing to do with the business at hand,” Hermanski said. “Let’s go into the conference room. We can converse more openly there.”

~ ~ ~

“When I talked to you several days ago, you said the three of you were in this together.”

Montagno and Lacarter looked puzzled at Hermanski as if they wanted answers too.

“Ah, boss, what is going on here? I thought we agreed to—” Lacarter interrupted.

“I hope there’s no problem. We’ll keep this all confidential. However, some of the details are already public knowledge. The more facts we know, the better chance we’ll have of finding the underlying cause of this. Could lead to an award-winning news story,” Porter said.

“Oh, Christ, I feel faint,” Montagno mumbled and plunked his body into a desk chair. Hermanski and Lacarter remained standing, their mouths gaping.

“Is something wrong? When I talked to you yesterday, you said you had some bizarre incidents to tell us about,” Porter said.

“I talked to you...yesterday...oh...you’re the news guy. You’re not the state auditors?” Hermanski said, suddenly realizing the mistake. “Hah, gentlemen, we can relax. These two reporters just want to know about our hunting experience with the deer. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Huh? Hah, hah, hah,” Montagno laughed. “I’m off the hook for the moment.”

“Sorry, we were expecting a state auditor to look at the books. We’ve come up a little...ah, never mind, not important. So what do you want to know?

The three men detailed their deer hunting experience and related recent events as best they could. Montagno explained his weird sense of the world spinning out of control, his dream of being a hunted animal, and his short-lived ability to add long columns of numbers quickly in his head.

~ ~ ~

“If you need further clarification of anything, please don’t hesitate to call. I trust we’ll get to proofread anything you put in the newspaper about us, right?” Hermanski said, leading Kottle and Porter to the entrance door.

“Certainly,” Porter said.

“Oh, one more thing, a Troy police investigator came here this morning and said the blood found on our kitchen floor from the deer head had anti-bodies in it similar to the guy who was killed near West Branch.”

“You mean Lickshill?” Kottle said.

“Yes, sounds right.”

“Got a name you can share with us?” Porter asked.

“Sure, he gave me his card. Here,” Hermanski said, taking a business card from his wallet. “You can keep it; I don’t need it. Name is Josh Morris.”

A black Lincoln drove up and parked across from the door.

“Great, thanks,” Porter said, taking the card.

“Hi, I’m Deacon Biggs with the State Business Tax Bureau,” a suited man said, walking up to Hermanski.

“Hi, we’re expecting you. Please follow me,” Hermanski said, waving off Porter and Kottle.

~ ~ ~

“That was weird. What do you suppose is going on in there?” Kottle said, driving away from the building.

“I don’t know, but we sure scared the hell out of them. The government recently beefed up healthcare tax-reporting compliance. I suspect it’s sucking countless cycles out of their everyday business operations. Hey, what did you think about Montagno? I’d say he’s our connection to Lopez and Lickshill.”

“I agree. His dream about running with deer—very bizarre. Did you write down the allergy medicine he was taking? Didn’t Lopez say he was taking medicine for his asthma? Maybe a connection there.

“Let’s see,” Porter said, browsing his notes, “he called it ‘Reflexion.’ I’ll see if Dingman can sniff out some background on it.”

“He sure can be a condescending jerk.”

“Yeah, Dingman can be hard to take at times, but I’m beginning to like him. He has a very dry sense of humor, and I think he even likes you, but...ah, you...” Porter stuttered, then continued, “You want to tell me about your flashback.”

“No, not right now. I’m sure Lickshill is just a coincidental trigger into my past, nothing more.” Kottle said, keeping her eyes focused on the roadway.

“Whatever,” Porter said, shrugging his shoulders.

Chapter 19

G
eorge Montagno sniffed the brisk November air trying to clear his stuffed nose and continued to breathe through his mouth. He pounded on the back door of their brick-ranch home with its newly built addition sprouting out the roof at one end. Sissy Montagno wanted to expand their family room into a spectacular vaulted ceiling at the other end, but they were denied a permit. The building inspector said it violated the Troy big-foot house ordinance for their neighborhood of smaller homes.

At least we have a bedroom for the baby
, he thought.