The Daisy Ducks (24 page)

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.