Buck Fever (25 page)

“I agree. Go for it. If there truly is a Rachel we will all be famous, and of course Katie will have her sister back.”

The doctor smiled and waved a thumb up.

Dingman winked, “I see talk shows in our future.”

Chapter 46

M
oses Carpenter adjusted the white-hooded robe, hiding his face, as he slowly walked through the alley leading to his former home in Oak Park. The divorce had taken everything from him. His ex-wife had not remarried, and they had no children. He grimaced at the uncut and scraggly lawn, which he once treasured and preened constantly. The small brick home had a large add-on family room connected to the back. An aboveground swimming pool, half filled with green water and leaves, covered most of the backyard near the house remodeled for children he would never have.

He rubbed his eyes removing the blur. His hands wiped away bright red liquid, which he dabbed on the robe. He darted around the pool and jammed his body against a rear door leading to the kitchen. It gave way without force.
She doesn’t keep it locked
, he thought.
She deserves to be robbed.

Carpenter heard voices emanating from the living room. His wife talked to a man about...he listened intently...about
him
. The man wanted to know if his wife had seen him or talked to him since the murder. She sniffled and replied, “No.” The man asked her if she would come downtown and answer a few questions, and maybe she could help save her ex-husband and others from future harm. She agreed.

What do they think, I’m the killer? I’m no killer...I’m no...killer...killer.
He could not exorcise the thought. It heaved forward in his mind as he quietly opened a kitchen drawer, removed a large butcher knife and stepped into the hall leading to the living room. The front door opened, then closed. He ran forward into the living room holding the knife in his right hand behind his back. He watched through the front-door window as a uniformed man escorted his wife into a waiting police car and drove off. His prized Lincoln remained in the driveway.

I can use the car. I will go downtown and convince them I am not a killer. Father Fellorday was my friend...my only friend.

~ ~ ~

Carpenter stood in the shower, slowly drying and dabbing his skin, removing bloodstains. He took several antihistamine pills prior, and they were taking affect. The red mucus around his eyes stopped flowing. He stepped out of the shower and closely faced the mirror over the sink.

He opened the medicine cabinet and searched for a small tube of makeup, which he often used to lighten his skin before seeing real-estate clients. His lightened skin put them at ease and reduced tension during the sales meetings in white neighborhoods.

Using his wife’s hair-styling scissors, he cut braided hair from the back of his head.

~ ~ ~

Who’s your daddy, now?
He squinted at the full-length bedroom-closet mirror as he adjusted a black collarless shirt inside his black suit coat. Reaching down, he brushed lint off his pant leg and black-leather shoes. The closet contained his old suits, shirts and shoes in neat order.
She still has feelings for me
, he thought, shaking his head. He found his diamond wedding band and gold watch in a dresser drawer.
Glasses, where are my glasses?
He searched through several drawers.
Ah, these will do
, he thought, removing thick-rimmed glasses with slightly darkened lenses. They would hide his blood-shot eyes without being overly mysterious. The glasses were perfect for playing poker.

He folded the bloodstained white robe, placed it into a black plastic garbage bag, and stuffed the bag in a corner of the closet top shelf.
Father Fellorday would be proud
, he thought. The robe gave the Father strength in a crisis, and it gave him strength as well. A further search in the closet uncovered his leather-bound Bible. He flicked dust from the cover and carefully opened it. Turning 100 pages, he exposed a small nine-millimeter handgun stuffed into a carved-out-center section. Further inspection revealed eight bullets in the clip. He closed the cover and kissed it. The Bible provided hidden protection when going to church in Detroit in the past.

The keys to the Lincoln lay on the kitchen counter near the phone as usual. He grabbed them, held the Bible under his right arm, and walked out the back door, locking it.

The collar, I need it
. He turned and banged the door with his right shoulder until it gave way. The lock tore through the wood doorframe.

He returned to the bedroom, searched through a drawer and found a white collar with folded wings often used over collarless shirts if a tie was necessary. Using small nail scissors, he carefully cut the wings from the neckpiece and stuffed the remaining collar into his right suit pocket.

Chapter 47

D
ingman stood in the hallway and called Pillbock using his earflap phone, as Porter and the doctor entered Mandi Hermanski’s room. He quickly communicated a summary of Katie Kottle’s actions, the possible location in Reno and identifying marks on Rachel. Pillbock acted amused, but not convinced.

“Did you not see the plaque over my desk? I’ve been there and done that. It can be very painful if the cops come up with nothing. The national news networks will be all over this. They would love to see us fail. Do I need to remind you we backed a Democrat in the last election? That still isn’t sitting well with the Republican-backed TV networks.”

“Okay, how about we go through a local TV station and give them a shot at being first to uncover the story, eh? We tell them it is a long shot, but plant the seed for the follow-on—the big story we are doing. They can release it now as a local story, then release the big story with us in a couple of weeks,” Dingman said.

“Yes, Jane Sperling with Reno Channel Four News. I’m calling as we speak. Will let you know.”

~ ~ ~

Porter and Dr. Grace stood near Mandi Hermanski’s bed, reviewing a chart. Jack Hermanski stood in the glass observation booth.

“Pillbock is making some calls and will let us know,” Dingman said, entering the room. He nodded towards Jack Hermanski.

“I’m all for free speech, but please tell me again, Doctor, why reporters are allowed inside the room and I’m not?” Hermanski asked.

“We are running short on staff because of the holidays. The Detroit Times was kind enough to volunteer their time to help me observe and document patient activities and reactions. It allows me more quality time to spend caring for the patients such as your wife.”

“Oh...okay. Thanks, guys,” Hermanski said and waved. The two reporters nodded.

“Shall we get started? Mandi Hermanski’s condition is different from the other patients. Her serotonin levels have reversed causing what we know as black depression. Imagine yourself floating in complete darkness and in total isolation: a form of adult autism.” The doctor became silent as he leaned forward, spread Mandi’s eyelids open, examining her corneas.

Porter twitched, feeling awkward when he noticed Jack Hermanski staring at him.

“Will she remember this feeling after the infection passes?” Porter asked. He glanced at Jack Hermanski who now stared at Dingman.

“We do look like space pilots from heaven, eh?” Dingman said, waving his earflaps.

“That’s what I was thinking. Montagno’s wife, Sissy, mentioned earlier she had a dream last night about two men—angels dressed in white—who would appear and take Mandi to heaven. I’m not much a church-going believer, but this is spooking the hell out me,” Hermanski said with a slight chuckle.

“Aha, gents, do you see the connection to my research so far?” the doctor said. Porter and Dingman nodded.

“Excuse me?” Hermanski said.

“Let’s just say that this disease profoundly impacts the frontal lobe of the brain where we make decisions based on little fact. An area of intelligence not well defined by rational thought.”

“You mean the sixth sense?”

“Something like that. More of a communications link between individuals beyond the normal senses of sight and sound.”

“Do animals have this same sense? What if this disease activates some intelligence in the deer and they somehow communicate with us?” Porter said.

“Please explain,” the doctor said.

“We were spectators in an event with a deer last week that we thought was trying to communicate to us,” Porter said. He continued to describe how the doe had snatched Lickshill’s granddaughter and guarded it in the woods. He indicated with his finger how the doe scratched the dirt spelling out: I-4-I. “Now here’s the punch line. We think that Lopez and his hunting partner, Greppleton, were the ones that killed Hermanski’s deer earlier that day. Lopez has ‘I4I’ on his license plate. He said it was a joke relating to his thick glasses. Do you suppose the deer was trying to get even for killing the buck?”

“Gentlemen, why didn’t you inform me earlier? We could have asked Mr. Lopez about it. What else do you know that’s suspicious?” The doctor glanced at Dingman who bent his head toward Hermanski. “Ah, no time now, let’s move on, you can tell me later.”

“Wait, I need to tell you about the dogs and our dog, Rusty. You might find this relevant.”

The doctor hesitated, “Okay, but make it quick”.

Dingman pointed his camera at Hermanski as he explained the incidents with skinning the deer, Rusty’s fascination with the deer remains, and the two dogs outside the patio door.

“Aha, and you finally disposed of the remains into a dumpster at a party store? Hmm, I best give security a call to go find it. Anything else?”

“Just that a Troy cop came and took a blood sample that dripped on the kitchen floor and later told us that it contained antibodies similar to Lickshill’s blood, the guy that was gored to death in West Branch.”

“Hmm, this just gets better and better. Do you have the name of this police officer?”

“Yes, I gave the card to these two reporters a couple of days ago.”

“Gents, you are holding out on me.”

“We have copious notes you can look through,” Dingman said.

“Okay, maybe at the end of the day, now back to Mandi Hermanski. She’s doing nicely,” Dr. Grace said, patting Mandi’s face. “I will give her a prescription to take away her depression, but she might go through a couple of dark days again in the weeks to come. She should be okay, though.”

“That’s a relief. I need to get home and let the dog out,” Jack Hermanski said, waving through the observation glass.

The doctor nodded. “Gents, let’s move on.”

Chapter 48

T
he Lincoln slowed to a stop next to a newspaper-vending container on the corner of Woodward and Six Mile road, near Detroit. Moses Carpenter stepped out of the car with engine running, walked to the front of the container and glanced through the plastic-covered window. A Detroit Times morning edition front page stared back at him. He bent over to read the headlines. The Disease Control Center was monitoring several patients for a viral infection contracted by exposure to deer meat, it stated. He looked lower. His printed face stared back, part of a marriage photo his wife must have supplied to the police. He jiggled the cover hoping it would open. He checked the money slot and jerked on the cover again, then gave up.

I am not a killer...killer...killer...killer
, he thought. A sharp pain shot through his brain just above his eyebrows. He grabbed his forehead. The more he tried to suppress his thoughts about Father Fellorday, the greater the pain.

He returned into the vehicle, held onto the steering wheel with his right hand, as his left tugged on the car door.
It’s stuck open
, he thought. He yanked again while stepping lightly on the accelerator.

“Freeze. Get out of the car!” a black man, dressed in grey sweat clothes, snarled, pointing a gun at his head. Another similarly dressed man held the car door open. The car continued to roll forward. “Stop...stop or I’ll shoot.”

Killer...killer...killer
. Another sharp pain rippled through Carpenter’s head. He punched the accelerator and bent his body toward the passenger seat, avoiding the outstretched handgun.

Bang. Bang.

The man standing inside the door shot twice, lost his balance, and fell backward to the pavement. One bullet shattered the passenger window; the other lodged in the floor near Carpenter’s right leg.

The second man held onto the door handle and dragged his legs on the road about 20 feet before letting go. He tumbled forward landing on his back.

Carpenter slammed his right foot on the brake pedal, looked into the rear view mirror, shifted into reverse and stomped on the gas pedal.

The first man raised his head up, struggling to lift his right hand carrying the gun. The second man lay on his back, moaning.

Terror overcame the first man as he watched the Lincoln accelerate and roll over his accomplice, squashing his head. Blood squirted from under the tire as the body flipped under the vehicle.

He raised his gun toward the car, now 30 feet away, and pulled the trigger. Again, and again, but no sound. He threw the gun at the car, spread his legs apart and pushed his body up. Too late. The left rear tire squealed between his legs, rolled over his body, crushing his pelvis, then chest, and across his face.

The pain in Carpenter’s head became intolerable.

“You bastards think you can jack my car before I have a chance to tell my side of the story? Think again.” He slammed his foot on the brake, shifted and sped forward, looked into the rear-view mirror and smiled at the sight of the first man’s flattened body as he drove directly over the second man again. He felt two thumps.

The pain raged as he drove forward. He shook his head wildly. The blasting sounds of several car horns jarred his senses back to reality as he passed through a red light at the Five Mile intersection. The pain finally subsided.