Buck Fever

by Robert A Rupp

  “All I remember is some doe got pissed at us and tried to scare us away. She came at me with a damn arrow. I got her good, though. Kicked her in the groin. She got me, too.” He held up his bandaged hand.

  “Look and learn,” Kottle whispered.

  “Can you tell me exactly what happened? An arrow? Where did the arrow come from?” Porter asked, scribbling notes into his notebook.

  “Well, it started like this...” Lopez said, and explained in detail how the doe pulled the arrow out of the buck’s neck and attacked him with it. Lopez’s wife held her head, shaking it.

  Porter jotted more notes, and looked up, hesitating as he thought of phrasing his next question.

  “You want to know about my new ability to second guess Einstein and all of his theories...right?”

  “It did make the front page,” Porter said, handing Lopez a cutout copy of Dingman’s news article..

  “I can’t really tell you anything more. A rush of apparent knowledge literally attacked my brain for about fifteen minutes when I first arrived at the hospital in West Branch, then was gone. I didn’t write it down, but I remember most of it. Before you get too excited, you should know I’m a part-time physics teacher at Wayne State University. I’m also writing my doctoral thesis on particle physics. I see those facts didn’t make it into the news story, though. Typical.”

  Porter smiled at Kottle briefly, as she sheepishly glanced at Lopez and his wife.

  “Hah, you’ve gotta love the stereotype: Some poor Hispanic goes hunting, is attacked by a deer, and goes off the deep end after contracting some strange virus, and his poor Hispanic wife waits patiently by his side in the hospital, as he gets better. I met her at the University of Mexico last year while doing research. She’s working on her doctorate too. Just doesn’t speak much English,” Lopez said, nudging his wife. She smiled and nodded.

  “Oh, I’m...well, we...I’m...” Kottle stuttered, her face red. “Look and learn,” she mumbled, shaking her head briefly.

  “Excuse me?” Lopez said.

  “It’s a long story. I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “We all do,” Lopez acknowledged.

  “So, you...they don’t know what caused this brain activity, right?” Porter asked.

  “Nope. The doctors think it’s from a virus or maybe the allergy medicine I was taking. Could have caused a living daydream of sorts. My mind’s full of research information. Some of it was bound to leak out,” he said, laughing. “Heck, if what I said was true, we’d have to rethink quantum physics and the whole structure of the universe. If I am right, we are no more than a day’s space flight from any star or any planet, not millions of light years away.”

  “You’re over my head now,” Kottle said.

  “It means light traveling through space might simply be a wonderful illusion to make us feel we are isolated in the universe, when in fact, we’re not.”

  “‘To make us feel’ suggests there is a greater power at work,” Kottle said. “I like the thought. It goes along with my Christian upbringing.”

  Porter glanced at her, hoping to keep the conversation at an objective level.

  Lopez shared words in Spanish with his wife, explaining Kottle’s remarks. She nodded and crossed her breast confirming her strong Catholic faith.

  “Of course, we’ve all been told the universe is an expanding bubble into nothing. Suppose everything is a bubble like a set of atoms forming molecules. The Earth is a bubble attached to the Moon’s bubble, attached to the Sun’s bubble and so on. To travel quickly through space, we would need to find the outer rims of these bubbles and traverse them and simply pass between the boundaries of time and space. Light bounces inside these bubbles giving the illusion stellar objects are further away than they really are.”

  “You mean like a right-side mirror on a car makes things appear farther away than they really are? Wouldn’t we have discovered the edge of one of these bubbles when we went to the Moon?” Kottle shook her head.

  “Maybe we did. We just thought it was the edge of the Earth’s gravity encountering the edge of the Moon’s gravity. In my supposed theory, gravity doesn’t exist, just a compressed set of forces within the sphere of each bubble.”

  “Reminds me of a statement my high school physic teacher said: ‘We might simply be a molecule of a giant table leg in another dimension.’”

  “Yeah, could be.”

  Porter glanced at his watch. “Do you know what happened to the deer? We...ah...we were in the woods near where you left the deer—we think, anyway—investigating another incident with a local hunter, but didn’t see anything. We did find an arrow, though.”

  “Incident?” Lopez asked.

  “It’ll be in the papers tomorrow. Another hunter was...ah,” Porter said, hesitating. He knew he shouldn’t be talking about it yet, but thought it might be pertinent. “Apparently, this guy was out hunting and got gored to death by an eight-point buck, or someone killed him to make it look like a deer did it.”

  “What? You don’t think we did it, do you?” Lopez straightened his body in defiance.

  Porter suddenly realized the possible connection. Kottle looked at him for meaning.

  “Ah...I suppose the authorities will want to question you. Has anyone contacted you regarding the deer? What about your friend, John Greppleton? Can we give him a call?”

  “Holy shit. Maybe I should get a lawyer.” Lopez pulled up the bed covers over his body. His wife mumbled in Spanish. He responded. She briefly stared at him and rattled off more unintelligible words. “No, no, it’s okay. They’re not going to put me in jail.” He repeated the statement in Spanish.

  “I think we’ve got enough for now. Mr. Lopez, if you have another episode, would you please call me? I’d like to explore this more.” Porter handed Lopez two business cards. “Also, please write down Mr. Greppleton’s number for me.”

  “No need, he’s coming through the door. Johnny...how you doing, dude?” Lopez leaned forward as a heavy-set freckled-face man wearing a blue sports jacket and tan slacks entered the room.

  “You ready to go back up next weekend? There’s probably more bucks waiting for us,” Greppleton said, reaching over the bed to hug Lopez.

  “No way. I’m through with hunting this year. Hey man, I’d like you to meet—“

  “Hi, I’m Jeb Porter and this is Katie Kottle from the Detroit Times.”

  “You’re becoming a regular celebrity,” Greppleton said, shaking hands.

  “You might want to sit down. Apparently, a man was killed in the woods near where we left the buck. And get this, he was gored to death by an eight-point buck, or...someone wanted it to look that way,” Lopez said.

  “What? Who?” Greppleton’s face turned ashen.

  “We’d better get a lawyer. People are going to ask questions.”

  “A lawyer? What? A lawyer?” Greppleton sat on the bed, trying to make sense out of the image in his mind.

  “There have been other weird things going on, too. A day later, a limping doe grabbed the man’s grandson and ran into the woods with him. The police came and shot it to save the little boy. The doe scratched strange marks into the ground like she was making a threatening statement,” Kottle said, without thinking.

  Porter looked at her and motioned to stop talking.

  “What? What strange marks?” Lopez asked.

  “Does ‘I4I’ mean anything to either of you?” Porter said, reluctantly, holding up a penciled note page.

  “Hah, you mean old four eyes, here,” Greppleton said, pointing at Lopez’s glasses.

  “Yeah, it’s an inside joke. It’s on my license plate. Why?” Lopez explained.

  Porter glanced at Kottle and shook his head to avoid a reaction. She was about to speak then stopped.

  “It’s probably just a huge coincidence, but we thought the doe was scratching it into the dirt,” Porter said.

  “Hah, I told you. I told you,” Lopez said. “That doe was smart. I mean, the way she pulled
the arrow out of the buck’s neck and came at me. I swear she—”

  “Harry, get a grip,” Greppleton said, “it’s just a dumb animal. You think it saw your license plate as we drove out of the woods and tried to get back at us for killing the buck? Come on, man, I teach behavioral psychology. I know animals can’t reason beyond basic survival instincts.”

  “Sure does make one think, doesn’t it.” Lopez shook his head and restated the previous conversation to his wife. She responded with a flurry of Spanish and hand gestures pointing to the top of her forehead.

  “Lucinda says there have been incidences throughout history of animals mimicking human characteristics and actions. Scientists think it’s similar to how a parrot reacts and speaks. A part of the brain that allows animals to mimic their predators so they can avoid capture gets hyper-active through an environmental trigger.”

  “Like West Nile or Mad Cow disease?” Kottle said.

  “Maybe, who knows,” Lopez said. Greppleton shrugged his shoulders.

  “Does your wife have training in the area of animal behavior?” Porter asked, making notes.

  “She has a degree in animal science and is near completion of her veterinary degree, so I’d say she does have some credibility. Why do you ask?” Lopez said.

  “I might want to put it in the news article. Helps make the story believable.”

  “Oh.” Lopez translated Porter’s comments. “She says it’s okay with her, and if you need more information on the subject, just ask.” Lucinda smiled at Porter.

  “Hey, man, not to change the subject, but I’ve got good news. A guy by the name of Jack Hermanski brought a large cooler of frozen deer meat to the house. He said he read the article in the paper and guessed he and two other hunter friends found my deer and wanted to share it with us.”

  “Really? Hot damn. Let’s make some jerky.” Lopez, excited, suddenly elevated his breathing.

  “Jesus, slow down, man. I don’t want to send you into another attack.” Greppleton said. “We’ll divide it up next week.”

  “Do you, by chance, have Hermanski’s phone number? I’d like to talk to him and see if he saw anything in woods,” Porter said. “I’d also like to inspect the remains of the buck and get a look at the antlers.”

  “Antlers? I forgot to ask him. Maybe he would give them to me. After all, it’s really my buck. Strange thing, though, they were tipped in something red, perhaps blood. Remember Harry?”

  “Yeah, you cleaned it off with wet leaves. Hey…you don’t think that buck had a run in with that man that was killed…do you? That gives me the creeps.”

  Kottle instinctively grabbed Porter’s arm. Lickshill, she thought. Porter put his finger to his mouth.

  “I think Hermanski lives in Troy. Here’s his card. He had a wacky story to tell. Apparently, he and his two hunting buddies had quite a workout getting the buck into the basement and it fell on top of one of them who got covered in goop and slime from inside the deer.” Greppleton handed Porter a business card and smiled at Kottle. Porter jotted a number in his notebook and handed it back.

  “Eeeyuu,” Kottle said, smiling back.

  “Maybe they still have the head and antlers. The police could use them as evidence,” Greppleton said, grinning at Kottle’s response.

  “Thanks for your help. I’ll need to get your permission to quote you in the story we’re writing for tomorrow’s edition. Okay?” Porter asked. “And, like I said, if you have another episode and expound the secrets of the universe, I’d like to hear about it.”

  “Me, too,” Kottle said.

  Greppleton gave a half nod, waiting for Lopez’ agreement.

  “If I have another brain fart, you’ll be the first to know. Maybe we can do tacos and talk about it.”

  Kottle blinked, trying not to react.

  Greppleton chuckled.

  “Sorry, just a dumb Mexican talking.” Lopez laughed and waved as the two reporters walked out.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kottle scowled. “Was he mocking us or just trying to be funny?”

  “If he didn’t explain earlier, I’d thought he was just some Mexican migrant worker doing some mediocre job. Live and learn...er, look and learn. These two could become suspects in Lickshill’s death, since they talked about wiping blood off the antlers,” Porter said, opening the car door for Kottle.

  “Yeah, I almost croaked when Greppleton mentioned it. Maybe they got into a fight over the deer. Perhaps how Lopez cut his hand. Naw, can’t be. These two guys are so sweet and innocent looking. Just can’t be. Why would they tell us about the bloodstains? Doesn’t make sense. I’m thinking the buck killed Lickshill in some wild rage to protect itself.”

  “Could be. Either way, it’s bizarre. The license plate has me baffled, too. Could the doe really have scratched out ‘I4I’ as if she saw it on the back of the car as they drove out of the woods? Unbelievable. You coming back to my place, or do you want me to drop you off at yours?”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday. I’d like to go to church and then clean my apartment. It’s such a mess. I haven’t been there in two weeks.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m going to put these notes into the computer tonight and maybe watch the game on TV tomorrow and stuff my face with beer and pretzels, and write the story of the century,” Porter said, as they drove off.

  “Why bother, Dingman’s probably already sent his in and got approval from Pillbock.”

  “Pillbock wouldn’t print his story without first proofing ours...I don’t think. Shit, now you have me worried. I’ll send you a draft later tonight. Let’s discuss and agree on it, and I’ll send it forward.”

  “Okay, but I get a chance to edit it, right?”

  “Sure, no problem,” Porter said, rubbing his eyes.

  Chapter 12

  “Incredible, George. I think you should stop taking the allergy medicine,” Hermanski said to Montagno on the phone in his home office. “Hey, I talked with the guy who shot the deer mentioned in the Detroit Times. He described the place in the woods. I’m positive it was his deer. I gave him a cooler of meat. He sure was appreciative. His hunting partner is still in the hospital getting over his asthma attack.”

  “I hope you kept some meat for yourself, or give me the rest if you don’t want it,” Montagno said.

  “No, I’m keeping the best cuts for Mandi; she loves the stuff. You know me, I prefer my Angus steaks. So, what did you find in the books, anything suspicious?”

  “I’ve totaled the numbers three times and there are mistakes. It’s weird; I can add them up in my head without a calculator. This allergy medicine might be giving me nightmares, but it’s also making me smarter.”

  “Your brain could be playing tricks on you. If you do find errors, I think we’ll have to fire Warner. He doesn’t seem to be cutting it. We don’t need a Sarbanes-Oxley incident.”

  “I agree.”

  “Hey, Rusty, come here, boy. Give me that. Come on. Give it to me.”

  “What?”

  “Uh oh, the dog’s got one of my rubber gloves from downstairs. He must’ve been snooping around the sink. I have to go and take it away from him before he messes up the place. I forgot to wash them out the other night. Talk to you later,” Hermanski said and hung up the phone.

  “Woof, weef, warf,” the young Cocker Spaniel barked. He repeated the series of barks, then whined.

  “Come here, boy. What’s the matter? You want to go out?”

  The dog dropped the glove, folded his legs, flopped down on the wood floor, and whined loudly.

  “What the hell. Mandi, come here, you’ve got to see this.”

  A tall blonde woman, wearing tight jeans and a white sweatshirt with “Yes, it’s always about me” embroidered on it, walked into the room. She carried a full martini glass in her left hand and a cigarette in her right.

  “What’s all the fuss? Oh, my Lord, what’s on our new floor?” she said.

  “Jesus, Mandi, you drinking already? It’s not even noon yet. It�
�s a rubber glove from the basement. I left it in the sink, and he found it.”

  “It has red slime on it. What is it? Not blood, I hope. What’s wrong with that piss-ant dog? God, he can be a whiner.”

  She twisted the cigarette into an ashtray on a nearby lamp table and knelt down to examine the rubber glove while still carrying the drink. Jack Hermanski stood up from his desk chair and leaned over her to stroke the dog.

  “Yuck, it’s got blood goop on it, and he’s got it on his mouth. He’ll get it all over the new furniture. Get a towel and wipe it off.” She reached down and picked up the glove.

  “Hold on, can’t you see he’s upset. I think he’s getting sick.”

  The dog continued to whine, then started to convulse.

  “Oh, no, he’s going to throw up. Get him out to the kitchen, now! Stomach acid will eat into the floor and cause a stain,” Mandi pleaded.

  Jack reached to pick up the dog. Its front and hind legs quivered and straightened forcing the dog to jump suddenly. Surprised, Mandi jerked her left hand forward, slamming the martini glass into Jack’s forehead. The dog snarled violently, grabbed the rubber glove from Mandi’s right hand and ran toward the kitchen.

  “Oh, my God, you’re cut. I’ve cut you!” she shrieked. “You’re bleeding. Get into the kitchen. You’re getting blood on the rug. I can’t believe this is happening.”

  Stunned, Jack stood up and groped his face.

  “Jesus...mother...I can’t see. Argh. There’s glass stuck in my head.” He wiped the flowing blood from his eyes and pulled a shard from his right temple. “You got to get me to a hospital. This is going to need stitches.”

  “I don’t believe this. Get into the kitchen so we can clean up the blood. Where is that damn dog?” She led Jack to the kitchen sink and handed him a wet towel. He dabbed his face, as she surveyed the cut. “Doesn’t look bad, really. Just a small gash above your right eyebrow. This is what you get for leaving your hunting stuff out where the dog can get it. I don’t know why you insist on going hunting anyway. You don’t even like deer meat. You always end up giving it all away, or I eat it.”