The Daisy Ducks (26 page)

To clear my mind of guilt temporarily, I placed this
new information into the chain of events to see how it altered them.
For one thing, it was now clear that the men in the two cars that had
happened by the Royce farm in the dead of night weren't friends or
acquaintances of Bill's. If they had been, they would have told him
about the lights, and he would have then inspected the system and
replaced the disconnected wire. He did not make such a repair because
he assumed the unicom was working. That left two possible scenarios.
Unfortunately, neither of them was cheery.

Scenario one
: The men
driving the two cars, hearing about the plane crash, go to the law
and report the strange lights they saw on the farm the previous
night. The police get a warrant, search the farm, and find the
lights, which are enough to incriminate Royce. They also find
binoculars belonging to one C. Adams, of Concord, Mass. Who's he?
they wonder. Then one of them, the trooper who directed traffic at
the crash site, whips out his notebook with my name and plate number
in it. Hearing the description of the camper, the drivers of the two
cars chime in that, yes, they too remember the camper: it was at the
farm the night before the crash. So Adams was at the farm two nights
in a row, just before and after the plane—carrying illegal
drugs—was due to land there. Fade-out. Curtain.

That chain of events, perhaps beginning to unravel at
this very moment, was bleak indeed. However, the second scenario was
surely no improvement.

Scenario two
: The drivers
of the midnight cars do not go to the law. Perhaps their innate
distrust of the police, or some shady nighttime activity of their
own, rules this out. So the law assumes the crash was simple pilot
error or equipment failure. But at least one person knows better:
Bill Royce, ex-air force commando. At his first chance, he examines
the signal box on the tree. A wire pulled out. Who did it? He
searches the farm, finds binoculars belonging to one C. Adams, of
Concord, Mass. Dr. Adams, the well-mannered guy who's a friend of
Roantis. The guy who said he was returning to New England. The guy
who lied, sabotaged his unicom, ruined his million-dollar drug deal,
and will probably get him arrested and thrown in the pen . . . Oh
yeah, that Dr. Adams . . . What are Royce and his friends going to do
about him? What do they have in mind for this Yankee sneak and
traitor?

l had no idea, except that it would not be Dinner at
the Ritz. Fade-out. Curtain.

l sat lor a while inhaling the fragrance of the
boiled cornedbeef. It didn't help. I could, no doubt, put forth
several more scenarios, each a variation on a theme. I had a feeling
none of them would conclude with C. Adams remaining a free and/or
healthy human being.

I ducked into the tiny bathroom and lathered my face.
I wanted to look as nice as possible. I didn't want an open-casket
funeral, but one never knows.

Assuming the law found my equipment and came knocking
on my door, what would happen? jail as a suspect. Phone calls home. A
hearing. Perhaps a trial. The odds were good I would eventually walk.

What would happen if Royce got on my trail? How could
I hide or escape from him, a man who could jump from an airplane at
twenty thousand feet? Rig explosives anywhere. Kill with his hands.
Who knew these mountains like the back of his hand. A master at
espionage, terror, and mayhem; a man at home with things like machine
guns, garrotes, C-4 plastique, claymore mines, tripwires, and
torture.

I picked up the razor and started to shave.

"Well, hot shot," I said to the clown who
stared back from the mirror, "looks like you've really done it
this time."

Fade-out. Curtain.
 

18

STRATEGIC WITHDRAWAL. That's what they called it in
the Daisy Ducks' war in Vietnam. As I finished shaving, that phrase
was echoing in my head. I thought it might be a good idea under the
circumstances. The law knew where I was. Royce could, and would, find
out in short order. I was therefore a sitting duck. It was true that
Roantis and Summers were on their way. If Roantis's old crate was
still in forward motion, they were certainly in North Carolina by
this time, probably almost to Asheville. I'd feel a bit safer in
Asheville. For one thing, they had lawyers there. I had a hunch I'd
be needing one.

But first things first. I had to call Mary.

"It was not a date, Charlie. Your saying that
makes you insecure. There were other people there, too."

"Couples?"

"Yeah, some of them."

"And so old Leon Kondracki—recently
divorced—just happened to know you'd be in town, and so he called
you to reminisce?"

"Uh-huh. Something like that."

"What do you mean, ‘something like that'?"

"Charlie, c'mon! Give me a break. How can you
mash with Janice DeGroot in the phone booth, for Chrissakes, and then
get pissed off at me when I go out for a pizza with my old high
school boyfriend—and nine other people?"

"How can I get pissed off? Easy, that's how!"

Well, you get the general drift of the conversation.
It was not pleasant. And I'd be the first to admit that I was being
overly possessive. But dammit, I couldn't help it. I couldn't shake
the feeling that Mary was trying to get revenge. And doing, I had to
admit, a thoroughly good job of it.

We called a truce to bury our dead, and we agreed I'd
phone her again in Concord after her flight back home. I went back to
the rig, unhooked it, and rolled out of the campground in a sour
mood. I made it a point to tell Mr. Hardesty that I was going over
the mountains to Tennessee. I wanted to lay a little false trail for
my acquaintances on both sides of the law who might be interested in
following me. I felt a sense of relief being on the road again. My
aborted New England boiled dinner could wait a few hours. As a matter
of fact, after the phone call to Mary, it could wait till hell froze
over. And it's not every day that Charles Adams would say that about
food, either.

But before I left Robbinsville, there was one thing I
had to do. Vance Memorial Hospital was not large. I stopped at the
reception desk to ask about the injured pilot and was directed into
the next room to wait "with all the others." There were
five other people in that room, sitting around smoking and drinking
coffee. If one of them hadn't been a woman, I would've sworn it was a
maternity waiting room. Who were they? Reporters, I figured. Before
long, a white-gowned attendant told us to follow him. We walked down
a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and approached a section of
hallway that was being guarded by a police officer sitting in a
straight-back chair. I didn't like this. What would I show for
credentials? But the officer scarcely gave us a glance as we all
walked past. At the far end of this corridor there were more chairs
set up outside the last room. We sat down while doctors and nurses
came and went. We were told to wait a few minutes until the attending
physician could give us a full report on the patient's progress.
Meanwhile, a Catholic priest had shown up, and he sat solemnly with
his little black case on his lap. I knew what was in that case; I had
seen hundreds just like it in all the hospitals where I've performed
surgery. It held silver vials with screw tops, and inside the vials
were rare oils in solid form, rather like petroleum jelly. Except
they came from whales and other exotic creatures and had a lovely
musky scent. These were anointing oils and were rubbed on the
foreheads of parishioners at the time of various sacraments, such as
baptism, confirmation, and so on. There was a different oil for each
sacrament. One of them was for extreme unction. In the old days this
was known as the last rites. The problem with this nomenclature was
that it understandably scared the hell out of hospital patients. So
now the Catholic church refers to it as "prayer for the sick."
Better. The priest, a swarthy fellow who looked rather Hispanic
himself, would perhaps speak to the injured man in his native tongue
and give him comfort.

"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 —"