by Rick Boyer
"I hope you're enjoying your stay with us at Flying K," said Walter Kaunitz as he lighted a Camel, "even though you got more of the Old West than you bargained for, eh? Fred told me about that sniper. I think it's time to take off the gloves with those bastards. Nobody's doing that to Flying K, let me tell you."
"Well, it's been an adventure. You gonna go to the law, or what?"
"Yeah. We'll meet with the sheriff and the highway patrol. But I'd like to catch 'em myself, red-handed. Sure Fred feels the same way. Appreciate it, though, if you didn't mention it at supper, Dr. Adams. The women worry, you know. Hey, Fred also tells me you're quite a ranch hand. Well, enjoy it all while it's still here. The medium-sized ranches, like this one, are fast disappearing. They're selling out, either to the huge outfits or to the real estate developers. Damn shame. Part of the reason is that crow bait who bushwhacked you. Look over your shoulder. See that bearded gentleman and his family? That was my great-grandfather, Franz Josef Kaunitz. Behind him is the sod house he built on this site back in 1868. That's when the ranch was started."
"Is there any reason to think that this ranch will disappear soon, Mr. Kaunitz? I sure hope not. I haven't had such a good time in years."
"Naw. We'll hang on to this speck of land for a while anyway, won't we, Fred?"
"For sure, Dad."
"I'd hardly call five thousand acres a speck of land," I said. "Well, you come from where? Massachusetts? Well hell, no wonder. That state's only as big as a postage stamp. Out here,
though, we're a speck."
"Did you take all these?" I asked, waving my arm around the room.
"'Bout half of them. The others my father took in the twenties. Freddie here took two of the bears and that Greater Kudu. Did he tell you what he did in Vietnam? Now that's really the most challenging hunting, right, Fred?"
His son grunted a reply. I had the feeling Fred wasn't anxious to discuss his career with the Daisy Ducks. A boy of twelve skipped in. It was little Freddie Kaunitz, who announced that dinner would soon be served. We followed the boy back through the garden and into the kitchen-dining building, where I met the wives. Beth and Margaret Kaunitz were attractive, reserved women. Margaret, Fred's mother, wore her salt-and-pepper hair back in a bun. She was very tall, which helped account for Fred's height. Beth was about thirty-five, with dark eyes and hair. I thought she might have some Latin blood in her. She was as dark as Mary, and that's dark. The dinner was beef Bourguignon with vintage French red, which was a pleasant surprise. I was, of course, expecting chili, barbecue, or giant steaks. Every attempt I made to bring the ladies into the conversation fell flat. They answered my questions politely, but were careful not to offer their own opinions. After dessert, I was beginning to wonder if they even had their own opinions. I also discovered that the women never ventured into the gunroom. I was surprised at all of this, but figured it might be common in rural Texas to have this kind of domestic relationship. In any case, it was apparent that the women of Flying K, while enjoying every material comfort, did not participate in the daily ranch decision making. Nor were they friends or companions to their husbands.
We returned to the gunroom, where Walter opened a beer, lighted a Jamaican cigar, and switched on the television. Fred and I walked out into the garden and sat near the fountain again. My body was now so sore that I'd had difficulty rising from the dinner table. I told this to Fred and he laughed, saying it was natural and that I was obviously in far better shape than most of his guests. I decided then and there to come right out with the
question I most wanted answered.
"Fred, who shot Roantis?"
"Not me, if that's what you're asking. You still think it was one of the Ducks?"
"I don't know."
He shook his head slowly and drank from his can of Lone Star, then grunted a soft beer belch, the kind that stings the inside of your nose. He shook his head again.
"I don't think it was any of the guys on the Daisy Ducks patrol. Period. Why do I think that? Because the kind of person who is a double volunteer in an elite armed services branch is not a thief. A thief by nature looks for a short cut, an easy way out. Just like that chicken-shit bastard who shot at us tonight. A bum. Nothing but a fucking bum. And if I catch him, I'll kill him. Now, the kind of guy who does what we did—tromping through the jungles and mountains for weeks at a time, with no outside help and in constant danger, isn't the kind to take short cuts. Sure, maybe some of us have fallen on hard times since then. I guess Roantis especially. But still, I just don't see how it could be any of the Ducks. You know Roantis's recent lifestyle better than any of us. You know the kinds of people he's been hanging around with. I think they're far better bets as suspects in the shooting than any of his army buddies. What do you think?"
"Well, there's no doubt he's been known to associate with some pretty rough customers."
"Then I'd look there, not in the Ducks."
He said this last statement with finality and force, and I realized that I had perhaps insulted him and his comrades in arms by suggesting that one of them might be responsible. But I knew that nobody outside the Ducks knew about the statue. I said nothing, and when we finished our beers we each retired to our sleeping quarters.
My room, done in adobe and oak, had a small balcony attached to the outside wall. When you walked out, you saw you were one story up on that side, since the ranch house was built on a slope. The windows and door on the courtyard side were at ground level. I opened the Spanish-style door, walked out onto the balcony, and listened to the night sounds. There was the chirping and buzzing of insects and the distant hoot of an owl on the wing. A breeze cooled my face and washed over my tired body. It smelled of grass, cattle, blossoms, mesquite and cedar trees. I went back inside and tried to do my daily fifty pushups with my feet up on the bed and my hands on the floor. No go. I tried the standard version. No go. I managed twenty sit-ups before my butt and stomach hollered in pain. I hauled my sore body into the sack and dropped into sleep's deep, dark well slightly faster them the speed of` sound.
But l woke up twice during the night. The first time I simply sat up in bed wondering where the hell I was. Strange sounds. Strange room. The second time was more interesting, because what had awakened me was the sound of my doorknob turning. I sat up again and leaned forward, toward the door. I could hear the latch turning slowly, back and forth. Very slowly, so as to keep silence. Just before I could spring out of bed and fling open the door to catch the nighttime visitor by surprise, the noise stopped and I heard very soft footsteps outside. Then a tall human figure appeared at the window on the courtyard side, silhouetted against the thin curtains. It leaned close, then was gone. Who was it? The dry-gulcher, perhaps, returning to try again? Was it one of the household staff, checking to see if I was safe? Did someone think the room was vacant and wish to use it for a tryst? Was somebody trying to rob me? Kill me? Who was it? I got out of bed, double-checked the lock, and went back to sleep.
* * *
Next morning I awoke at six and couldn't return to sleep. The nighttime visitor had me going. But I decided not to say anything about it, not to anyone. Whatever his intentions, they obviously weren't aboveboard or he wouldn't have come calling in the dead of night. But I was unharmed, and Fred was upset enough over recent events on his ranch. So I was going to keep mum.
I staggered out of the sack and into the shower, letting the hot water work on my sore, stiff body. My head felt better, but the bruise from the kicking steer still ached. I got dressed and eased out onto my little balcony to watch the sun come up over the hills.
I saw a lone figure in the distance, a man running among the scrub oaks that dotted the horizon. I kept watching the figure, and soon it was obvious that the strides weren't regular; there was a lopsided loping to them. It was Fred Kaunitz, running on his bum leg. The man kept himself in A-1 shape, that was for sure.
We had breakfast at seven-thirty and then went to the rifle range. My score surprised Fred, and he sai
d so. At pistol silhouettes I surprised him even more. Then we shot skeet, using autoloading shotguns in twenty-gauge. I got about three quarters of the clay targets, which is as good as I ever do. Fred got all of` them. We returned to the pistol range and shot nine-millimeter and forty-fives. In slow fire I equaled him in the nine-millimeter and finished slightly behind with the forty-five. Then we did a few targets in rapid fire, in which each shooter must empty his magazine in twenty seconds. I fell slightly behind in this event, but not much.
"You do a lot of` pistol shooting," he said.
"Yes. But mostly slow fire. Fifty-yard paper targets and some steel silhouettes."
"Ever do any combat events?"
"Never. just some rapid fire."
"Well, let's walk over to the combat course we've got laid out here. I'll put you through your paces. We don't have time for more than a couple of walk-throughs, but you'll get the idea."
Near the skeet range, and connected to its power source, was an automated combat simulation course. It was a series of moving and pop-up targets that you walked through, pistol holstered. When the target popped, you were to draw and fire from a crouch. Sometimes two targets came up at the same time and you were to make the best decision as to which to go for first. At the end of the course there was the plate event, in which each contestant was to see how many rounds of a full clip he could put into a circular steel plate at twenty yards. We walked through the course. Fred was phenomenal in his speed and accuracy. The big forty-five was up and in his paw instantly. The shots came so fast they sounded like a single long explosion. He hit the center mark on all the pop-up targets and filled the plate with all seven rounds each time. I stunk at it.
Fred kept himself razor-sharp in those combat skills. Why? Was it pride in his past military service? Was it necessity, brought about by the labor agitators or whoever they were in the bush? Was it, like my target shooting, pure pleasure? Or was it . . . What was it? We spent the remainder of the morning on a long tour of the ranch. Fred never mentioned anything about the finances, but it was obvious that he loved every square inch of the huge family estate and that something was bothering him. We returned to the house and I packed my gear, then we drove out to the airstrip.
The flight back to San Antonio seemed very short. Almost before I knew it, I was stepping out on the wing of the little Mooney and waving good-bye to the handsome pilot who'd been such a fine host and straight shooter. And the man who, of course, couldn't have had anything to do with the shooting of Liatis Roantis up in Concord.
But there were a few things bothering me.
I considered the events at Flying K Ranch as I watched the little aircraft taxi back down the blacktop. The first thing was my near miss at the loading chute. It looked ninety percent like an accident. But ninety isn't a hundred. Then the two bullets that came within inches of my chest as I got into the jeep after Fred had nailed the coyote. Certainly Kaunitz had nothing to do with firing the shots. But was it just coincidence that we stopped within range of the hidden gunman? Then there was the midnight visitor to my room. It's a Southern tradition not to lock doors. I'm not a Southerner, and I had locked mine with a throw-bolt. The figure who peered into the room was tall. None of the Mexican ranch hands were tall. There were only three tall people I'd seen at Flying K: Fred, and his mom and dad. Now the nighttime stalker could have been the dry-gulcher or another outsider, but I doubted it. I doubted it because Lothar, the big watchdog, slept in the courtyard, and there hadn't been a peep from him. So the odds were overwhelming that Fred Kaunitz was the person at the window. Why was he there, in the dead of night, softly turning my doorknob?
And then there was something I'd inadvertently seen after breakfast, when we were shooting at the range. I'd gone into the range shack to retrieve another box of cartridges. But instead of looking in the left storage locker, I'd absent-mindedly swung open the one on the right. There were no cartridges, just targets and hunting jackets. Still unaware that I had opened the wrong locker, I searched through the dark closet, even reaching around the corner past two hunting jackets that were hanging on hooks. It was behind the jackets, leaning upright against the locker wall. Black plastic fore end, three vent holes, folding carrying handle over the receiver. Exactly as Roantis had described it. The FN-FAL assault rifle. I closed the locker door and, after a second's delay, found the cartridges in the opposite locker. I took them to Kaunitz without a word.
Finally, Fred's bum right leg, injured in the same location that my lucky bullet struck just after Roantis was hit. Like Fred, that gunman could shoot like crazy. And Fred needed the money. And he had the means of transportation too . . .
Wait a minute, sport. No hasty conclusions. It's all circumstantial, held together with half-baked theories and bubble gum. But, as I headed back to the Del Rio Hilton in the taxi, I looked down at the scrap of paper in my hands. It was the registration number of Freddie Kaunitz's Mooney airplane. Call it a hunch, but some inner voice had told me to make a note of it.
10
"AND You never listen!” Mary said.
Actually, 'said' isn't the right word; 'shouted' is better.
"That's the pisser, Charlie. I thought we agreed that you wouldn't see this guy Kaunitz. So what do you do? You go to his goddamn ranch and get shot at and trampled! Sweet Jesus!" I held the receiver a few inches away from my ear to cut down on the decibels, and also to let some of the steam escape. I guess I shouldn't have mentioned the little incidents. But if I couldn't talk freely to her, how could I level with her? And if I couldn't level with her, who could I level with?
"Now Mare, you're making too much of —"
"No I'm not. I've about had it with your little adventures, pal. You keep it up and you'll have all the freedom you want . . . and more!"
After she hung up, I eased back into the tweedy chair of the private airline club. Just outside the rosewood door, thousands of frantic travelers rushed to and fro along the miles of O'Hare International Airport's corridors. What a madhouse. I had just arrived from San Antonio and had a two-hour layover until the Boston flight departed. I looked at my watch. One-thirty. Would Michael Summers, former member of the 101st Airborne Brigade and the Daisy Ducks, show? I thought not. He hadn't sounded that together when we'd talked earlier. But I was wrong. At quarter to two, I was just beginning to doze in my easy chair when the receptionist tapped me on the shoulder.
"Dr. Adams? The man you've been waiting for has arrived. This way, Mr. Summers."
The man who sat down opposite me looked big and mean. His thick, dark face wore a scowl; his huge body seemed to dwarf the big easy chair he'd lowered himself into. He resembled the late Sonny Liston, the heavyweight slugger Muhammad Ali called "The Bear." I rose, leaned over, and shook his hand. It was a beefy paw that encircled my hand, hiding it. The handshake was firm but not brutal. Mike Summers was confident enough in his own strength and toughness not to have to parade it. I sat back again and looked at him closely. In an instant, my medical training told me that underneath the great size and strength, Mike Summers was in trouble. The whites of his eyes had a yellowish hue, and there were rust-colored patches there, too. The face and hands were puffy. Too much booze and a bad diet.
"How you doing?" I asked.
"Been better. I want a drink. Okay?"
"Sure. What'll it be?"
"Double Scotch on the rocks and a bottle of Miller's."
That was three drinks, not one. But I didn't feel like pushing the point. I went up to the bar and got his order and a bottle of Heineken's for myself. On the way I stopped by the front desk and asked the receptionist if she could get me a blood pressure cuff. She balked at first, but I assured her the airlines or the airport clinic had one somewhere on the premises. I returned to our chairs and placed the drinks on the table between us. Soon the barkeeper brought us a plate of cheese and pretzels. Summers picked up the whiskey and tossed it off as if it were a shot glass. Then he sipped his beer, let out a slow, deep growl of relief, and lighted
a Lucky Strike.
"Well, Mike, I've just spent two days with Fred Kaunitz, who sends you his best."
"Hooweee, man. Well, I think even his best ain't gonna help me much now. Got throwed out of my place today." He nodded in the direction of the coatroom in the front of the club. "Everything I own is in that GI duffel bag up front. Everything."
"Where are you going? What will you do?"
He shrugged his massive shoulders and let out a slow breath of smoke. "Can't go back to the South Side, that's for sure. I'll be on the street for keeps in a month."
I pushed the cheese tray at him but he declined, saying he'd appreciate it if I bought him another round. This I did, and after another jolt of hooch he managed to attack the cheese and pretzels. It wasn't an ideal diet, but it was solid food anyway, which was more than he'd probably had in a few days. Mike Summers, war hero, was another of the walking wounded. The Daisy Ducks had had their wings clipped but good. The receptionist came up with a leather pouch and placed it on the table.
"What's that?" asked Summers.
"A blood pressure cuff. Do you mind?"
"Hell yes I mind!"
Then he leaned forward in his chair and placed his big dark face inches from mine. He seemed to loom over me like an ancient monolith. He spoke in a soft, menacing whisper.
"You a nosy motherfucker—you know that?"
"Suit yourself then," I replied as nonchalantly as possible. He eased back in the chair, staring at me. Then his eyes softened a tiny bit; the frown wrinkles relaxed just a tad.
"All right then," he said, unbuttoning his sleeve. "Then will you stop messing with me?"
I checked the readings twice: one eighty-two over one thirty-one. Mike Summers was probably days, maybe only hours, away from a massive stroke. I hated to think what his systolic pressure had been twenty minutes earlier, before he'd had the drinks. I explained frankly what the readings meant. At first he scoffed, saying he was fine. I just sat back and waited, and soon he admitted he'd felt pretty rotten for months.
