by Rick Boyer
* * *
There is what I call a presence. When I use the term with patients, I am referring to a faint, gnawing discomfort that is not yet pain. When you are aware of your molar, or your elbow joint, or your big toe, but it doesn't hurt yet, it is a presence. The same is true of vague and indefinable noises or that intuitive sense of the proximity of another person, that violation of your space that signals presence, welcome or no. I was sitting upright in the bunk, my head bumping the cabin roof. I had awakened without knowing why. I looked at my watch: quarter to two. What was the presence I felt but did not see or hear?
I slipped out of the bunk and stood in the camper. I had left no light burning; the interior was completely dark. I walked to a window, lifted the curtain slightly, and peered outside. I could see nobody, but I had heard the chassis springs creak a bit as I moved. That was because I had simply parked the vehicle and not set up the leveling jacks that take the weight off the suspension system and anchor the truck firmly. So if somebody were outside watching, they would hear the springs, too, and know I was awake.
I sat down at the table and looked across the clearing into the trees. Nothing moved. Everything was quiet. I got dressed, picked up the automatic, and opened the camper's door. A cold wind hit me; I returned and put on the motorcycle jacket and my watch cap, then stepped outside into the darkness, shutting the camper door behind me. The easy thing would have been to stay inside. But then I would've been up all night worrying and wondering. The best way to set your mind at ease, over any problem, is to face it head-on, even if there is a risk. Standing there outside in the cold and darkness, I savored the risk and the aloneness. Did I like it or fear it? Both, I decided. Did I hear anything? No. I realized, dressed in dark clothing, that I stood out against the white camper rig, so I sat down on the ground and waited.
Before long I felt the presence again, a sound that shouldn't have been there. I wasn't sure what it was, but it was coming from behind me, from the far side of the truck. I have very keen long-range hearing, especially for faint sounds. Instinctively, I flattened myself on the ground and rolled underneath the truck, holding the pistol out in front of my head. I saw two dark lines advancing toward the camper. Legs. I slipped the safety off and drew back the hammer. The legs kept winking in dark lines toward me. They stopped not a yard from my face. The hiking boots went up on tiptoe. The prowler was trying to see in the windows. No such luck; I'd left the curtains closed, and he obviously hadn't seen me leave. The legs walked around the rear of the vehicle, and I turned silently on the earth, following him. If he ducked down for a look under the truck, I would shoot him, because I was sure he had a gun too.
The hiking boots and jeans now stood at the door I had just left. Again they went up on tiptoe. I was belly down behind the rear tires, which were double tires on each side. I had the feeling that even if he looked underneath, he wouldn't see me right away. I wasn't resting on my stomach. I was in a low, wide crouch on my knees and elbows, my head up, gun held out in front. And then I got mad. Who the hell was this guy, anyway? What gave him the right to sneak up on my camper rig in the dead of night and lay for me? I was more than a little sick of being pushed around and questioned. Now I'd finally had it. When the feet came back toward the rear tires—about two feet from my face and only inches from my hands—I put the automatic down on the grass and sucked in a deep breath. My heart was going like a steamhammer. I knew it had to go just right or I was in trouble, maybe even dead. Thank God for the truck's high clearance. I could never have attempted this from beneath a car. In fact, I thought, if I had any sense, I wouldn't be attempting it now. And that revealed the fundamental problem: I had no sense. Mary, God bless her heart, was right. Brains, yes; sense, no. No, wait: brains maybe . . .
The boots paused right near the tires, toes pointed toward me. He was trying to look in the wide galley window. I reached around slowly so that my hands were directly behind his ankles, and I braced my right knee up against the tire for more leverage. I had to remember to pull straight back, not back and up, which was the natural inclination. Then, having mentally rehearsed my moves, I grabbed the ankles and pulled with all my might. There was a cry of agony as the man's shins hit the bottom of the truck frame and he went down hard on his back. I heard the air whoosh out of his lungs. Grabbing the pistol, I rolled out from underneath the truck and found myself on top of him, staring into shiny jet black eyes that squinted in pain beneath a ski cap. The priest. I began to raise the pistol to clip him on the side of the head, when he grabbed my shoulders. But before I could bring the gun barrel down, I felt a knee under my chest that heaved up just as the hands on my shoulders pulled down. The world did a flip-flop all around me, and I landed on my back.
Keep moving, Roantis had told me time and again in class. Roll, jump, run, spin, but keep moving as long and as fast as you can. If you don't, you're dead. I rolled over three times as fast as I could and at the end of the third roll came up on the balls of my feet, my legs bent and the left foot forward. Where the hell was the gun? The man came at me, waving his arms. I shot mine up to block and was caught dead center by a sweeping side kick I hadn't seen coming. The arms were only a diversion, and he caught me a good one. I rolled with the kick, spun again, and came up as before. He tried another kick, but I jumped back. As long as he kept this up, I couldn't get close enough to touch him. And I still hadn't seen the gun. There was another sweeping kick from Father What's-his-name, but as the foot flew past me sideways I pushed it along hard and fast, throwing him off balance and leaving his back exposed to me. I waded in and threw a punch with all my strength into his right kidney. I can't throw a punch worth a damn, but any hit to the kidneys hurts like crazy. He grunted and spun an elbow around which clipped me in the jaw. The world went fuzzy, and I was in slow motion. I saw the low kick coming but could not move. It caught me in the groin, and the pain was so bad my knees buckled. Then he moved in close, ready to chop away at my head and throat. I was about to say the Hail Mary when I heard a voice.
"My God, it's you!"
He leaned over and peered at me. It wasn't the priest I had seen in the hospital. But I knew the face. How could any man forget it. And then the ski cap came off and I saw that jet black hair all around her face. I could even smell the sandalwood.
"It is you, isn't it, Doc?"
"Think so," I said, holding my crotch. "And who are you?"
"I'm Daisy."
19
I LET OUT a slow sigh that was half relief, half agony. I hobbled around and leaned over to ease the pain. It didn't work.
"So you're Daisy," I moaned. "Figures. I knew there was a Daisy somewhere in this surrealistic mess. And lady, you're not easy to forget. So you were on your way to see Roantis when you passed me on the hospital stairs."
"Yes."
I began to stagger over to the camper, and she put her arm around my waist and helped me along. It made me feel really macho, having a woman help me inside after she had beat the snot out of me.
"Uh, this may be a silly question, Daisy, but why hasn't Roantis mentioned you?"
"Good reasons. For one thing, the work I'm doing now is, shall we say, sensitive. I work for the government. I'm out of the country a lot. I came back when he was shot. That time you and I passed each other on the stairway was the first time I'd seen Papa in three years."
"Papa? jeez, no wonder he's kept you under wraps."
"It's not what you think. He's my stepfather. I've heard a lot about you, you know. I knew who you were when I saw you the first time. Papa's spoken a lot about you."
"That's nice. But why are you down here? Did Liatis send you down here secretly to babysit me?"
"He suspected there might be danger here. From what I've seen on my own so far, he's right. He wanted me to keep an eye on you, just in case."
"Well, you're doing a great job looking out for me, Daisy. You do your job any better and I'll be dead. Gee, it's a good thing I've had all my children."
"I am sorry
, Doc," she said as she tightened her grip around me. I grabbed her upper arm. It was thin, but hard as cable. Once inside the camper, I sat down and stretched out my legs. Daisy locked the door, removed her cap, unzipped her parka, and sat down next to me. Her English had a French accent. This, coupled with her lovely Eurasian features, made my ticker skip a few beats. She looked down at my groin.
"How's the pain?" she asked.
"Bad. But it's happened before. It'll go away with time. Where did you learn all the deadly stuff, anyway?"
"From Papa, same as you. And some of it I learned on Okinawa as a kid. It's a long story. Anyway, when I knew he was going to be all right, I volunteered to come down here. It's a good thing you called Papa the night before you left, Doc. I barely had time to catch a plane the next morning."
"So you beat me down here? Were you walking around my camper rig last night? I found tracks."
"Yes. I thought the falling snow would hide them. I was just checking up. I was doing the same thing just now, when you grabbed me. I didn't know it was you; I was positive you'd be inside asleep."
She winced quickly and swayed on her feet. Her eyes closed.
"Hey, you all right?"
She was holding her stomach and her mouth twitched. "I don't know. I don't think so. I feel sick. I feel like I want to throw up, and it hurts in front and back."
I turned her around and pulled up her sweater in back. just over her right kidney was an ugly bluish bruise. It seemed to grow darker and bigger even as I looked at it. I pressed it softly and she flinched.
"How did that happen? You fall down?" I asked.
"You hit me there, Doc. Don't you remember?"
"Uh-huh. But I can't throw a punch. I couldn't have done that."
"Well, you did it. You're tougher than you think. I think I have to go to the bathroom now."
"Has it been a while since you urinated last?"
"No. I went in the bushes just before I came up to the trailer to look inside. The cold weather makes me go a lot. I'm not used to it."
"But now you feel some urgency?" I asked her.
"Yes."
I didn't like the sound of it. I told her to sit on the toilet and urinate, but not to flush it. She was in there a long time, which I also didn't like. When she came out, I looked in the toilet bowl. The urine was tinted a faint pink. I didn't like it at all. I looked at her buttoning up her jeans. Her shiny black hair cascaded all down the front of her sweater. She looked like a coed. God, she was gorgeous. And I had hurt her. A bruised kidney is serious, and can be critical. Daisy asked for some tea, and I brewed it. I poured us each a dollop of whiskey. It might not be the best thing for her, but it would take the chill off and ease the pain a little. After she drank the whiskey and the tea she took off her shoes, climbed into the bunk over the cab, and slipped under the covers. She rustled around underneath them, and then the jeans slid out from under the blankets and fell to the floor. I picked them up and folded them. She lay there on her back, staring up at the cabin roof. Her eyes and mouth were tight with pain.
"I'm sorry, Daisy. I thought you were Jesus Jusuelo trying to kill me."
Her eyes widened.
"You know a lot about this then, don't you?"
"Sure do. Enough to get me killed, maybe. I think I've seen Jusuelo, disguised as a priest, at the hospital. The more I picture the priest's face in my mind, the more it looks like the one in Liatis's old snapshot of the Daisy Ducks."
"It's him. I tailed you to the hospital, Doc. I saw him leave. I tried to hide my face, but I think maybe he saw me."
"And he knows you?"
"Sure. All the Ducks know me. Papa named them after me." I stared at the lovely young thing in the bunk. She sure was full of surprises.
"I can't wait till Roantis gets here. By the way, can you tell me what your connection is with him?"
"As I said, he's my stepfather. My father was René Cournot, a foreign legionnaire. I never knew him. He was killed at Dien Bien Phu fighting alongside Roantis. I was in Hanoi at the time, just a year old. After Papa survived the forced march and imprisonment, he came back and got me. My real name is Danielle Cournot. Roantis always called me Daisy. I can't tell you more right now. I already told more than I promised —"
She grunted and turned over on her side, facing away from me on the bunk. Then she spoke again.
"I think I really trust you, Doc. It's a feeling I have. I know now why Papa trusts you too. Also, you're the first man ever to injure me in unarmed combat. I don't know what that means . . ."
"I don't know what it means, either. I'm certainly not proud of it. You won the round—it was just a lucky punch. Er, unlucky punch. Now listen: I'm going down to the pay phone and call an ambulance. You've got a distressed kidney, and it could get worse before it gets better."
She sat up and pulled off her sweater, then lay down on her stomach.
"It doesn't feel so bad anymore. I'll just lie still. Will you rub my back so I can go to sleep?"
I reached up and stroked the smooth tan skin that was tight and wrinkle-free over the firm muscle. She turned her face to me and smiled. A knockout. I felt very young and very old at the same time. Daisy made little sighs and cooing noises. She raised herself up on her elbows and shook her hair around. Then she had turned her face around and it was close to mine. She leaned back on her far elbow and reached around behind my head with her hand. Then we were kissing. She didn't rush it.
"Daisy, I don't think —"
She held her finger up to her pursed mouth, then drew back the blanket. There she was, stretched out in the bunk in her undies. I tried to move my eyes, but they wouldn't budge.
"Daisy, I, uh, don't think —"
"I like the way you look, Doc. That's one reason I wanted to come down here. Want to come on in?"
"No. I can't."
She said nothing. She turned over on her stomach again, and the sight of her panties stretched tight across her rump—shiny and satiny with the little pull wrinkles in just the right places—and her long black hair down her back—well, it made me think. It made me realize that I was a strange mixture of wanton desires and ironbound restraints. But one thing I knew, and I knew it even when Janice DeGroot and I were in the phone closet: I loved Mary. And only Mary. And that I would not jeopardize.
I leaned down and kissed Daisy on her back, watching the deepening bruise over the small of her back where I had smacked her. Her dark skin smelled like sandalwood.
"I'll be right back," I said, and put on my jacket.
She pulled the covers back up and closed her eyes. I shut the door and began walking toward the pay phone next to the office, about a hundred yards away. Not far from the door I kicked a heavy object ahead of me. My Browning. I put it in my jacket. The phone call was brief: Vance Memorial had only one ambulance and it was engaged on an out-of-town run. Could I bring the patient in myself? Certainly. I gave Daisy's name, not mine. In fact, I speculated about their reaction when they saw me again. The more I speculated, the more I realized I didn't want to think about it.
I hung up and headed back. Thirty yards from the camper, I knew something wasn't right. The door was open.
I took out the Browning and slipped off the safety. I walked around the rig twice. Then I took a deep breath and jumped inside, landing in a combat crouch and spinning around fast. Nobody home. I opened the toilet door. Vacant. I called Daisy's name twice. No answer. Where were her jeans, sweater, and shoes? Gone. Had she left voluntarily or been taken? She would be hard to take, I thought, if my experience had been any indication. And then, looking at the little dinette table, I had my answer.
Sitting there were my binoculars and thermos bottle.
20
I WAS STILL SITTING at the dinette table, staring at the two objects on it, when john Hardesty roused me from my stupor to say I had a phone call.
I followed him to the office in the early light and picked up the phone. I was shaking a little; I was expecting it to be the kidnappe
rs, perhaps giving me secret instructions and a ransom demand. No such luck. It was Roantis, telling me they'd been delayed because his car had blown up.
"We're here at an Exxon station in Asheville. It's on Patton Avenue—you know where that is?"
"No, but I'll find it. Listen, Liatis: they got Daisy."
There was silence at the other end. Then I explained exactly what had happened.
"You mean you caught Daisy sneaking around the camper in the night?"
"Yes."
"And you two fought, and you injured her?"
"Yes."
"Now Doc, tell the truth."
"It's all true. Then, when I went to call the hospital, they went inside and grabbed her while she was in the bunk."
More silence.
"Get here as fast as you can. We'll decide how to do this."
"Will they hurt her?"
"No. They're buying some time. Dat's what I think. But hurry."
The ride back to Asheville wasn't pleasant. I couldn't stop thinking about Daisy and what was happening to her. What about her injury? If she got plenty of rest and enough fluids to keep her kidney clear, she would probably be line. Still, an antibiotic would be wise. And if she was mistreated or forced to travel any distance, the results could be disastrous. I could not stop blaming myself, even for a second.
On the outskirts of the city, I asked directions for Patton Avenue and discovered I was on it. I headed in until I saw the Exxon sign and Roantis's old crate. I swung into the station and saw Roantis inside with his wallet out. I went in and shook hands with him. Though he was not a person to show emotion, his eyes were crinkled up in the corners with tension. Mike Summers was sitting in a chrome and vinyl chair reading an old copy of Outdoor Life. He looked up and nodded, smiling. But there was reservation in the smile too. He stood up and talked softly to me.
