Buck Fever

by Robert A Rupp

  Sanguini and Dingman laughed and reverted to sports talk.

  “Do you have those test samples?” Kottle asked Dingman. “Did anyone remember to take them from that screwball?”

  “Samples? Screwball?” Sanguini asked.

  “Yes, my dear, I have them right here,” Dingman said, patting his coat pocket. “She is referring to Mr. Sulkin’s bizarre behavior we encountered earlier. Have you noticed any difference in him the last couple of days?”

  “I haven’t had a need to talk to him lately, but the funeral director over at the home mentioned something puzzling to me yesterday. He said Sulkin submitted an order to his chemical vendor for Hydrazine, Ether and some unusual compounds, and was wondering if I knew of any investigation going on requiring those substances. I didn’t have a clue.”

  “Hmm, let me capture that.” Dingman pulled a small notepad and pencil from his inside coat pocket, wrote the names of the chemicals and stuffed it back into his pocket. “See, my dear, comes in handy even for me,” he said, looking at Kottle. She forced a smile.

  ~ ~ ~

  Dingman excused himself and walked to the restroom. On his way back, he stopped briefly at the bar to chat with the woman who delivered beer to their table earlier.

  “You sell many Hunter’s Burgers this time of year?” he asked.

  “Your friend ordered the first one in two weeks. We’ve been out of venison since hunting season started. We depend on a few hunters to provide the meat. It’s mainly a novelty for tourists and downstate hunters. The locals think it’s a joke, though.”

  “Interesting,” Dingman said, making notes. “Where did today’s venison come from?”

  “A wrecker driver brought over a whole deer this morning.”

  “Do you know where he got it?” Dingman asked.

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to talk to the owner. He’s not here right now, though.”

  “Please give him this card. I’m from the Detroit Times. Tell him he should call me if anything unusual happens around here in the next couple of days.”

  “Oh, you’re a newspaper reporter from Detroit? You want my name?” the woman said, her face beaming.

  “Sure, why not. Maybe I’ll quote you in the newspaper and give this place some free exposure.”

  She provided her name and phone number, and told Dingman to call her anytime he’s in town. He scribbled some more notes and walked back to the table to join the other reporters.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Are you making time with the local scenery?” Sanguini remarked.

  “Never know where the emotional heart of your story is going to come from,” Dingman said, winking.

  Kottle and Porter were deep into a side conversation about upcoming weekend activities. She hung on Porter with an obvious effect of too much alcohol.

  “Are you feeling okay, my dear?” Dingman asked. “Your face is quite flushed.”

  “Huh? Oh, it is?” Kottle said. She pushed her right hand into her purse and pulled out a small compact mirror. “Oh, my God, I’m breaking out with hives. Why didn’t you say something, Jeb?”

  “I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

  “I feel dizzy. Maybe it’s time to leave. I’ve got to hit the lady’s room first.” She stood up, stuffed the mirror into her purse and staggered toward the bar.”

  “Hope she’s okay,” Sanguini said. Dingman watched her walk and shook his head.

  “She’s fine. Her cheeks always get red after a few drinks,” Porter said, setting his own mind at ease.

  Dingman shared his information about the deer meat as the three waited for Kottle’s return.

  “Could that be the one you hit this morning? Doesn’t a dead deer have to go through the rigor-mortis cycle for a couple of days before eating?” Porter wondered.

  “My thinking exactly.”

  “I will talk to the owner when he gets back this afternoon. I don’t think anyone should be eating that meat,” Sanguini said. The two reporters agreed.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kottle stared into the mirror over the sink getting her bearings.

  The restroom was small: a toilet in the back, an old chipped enamel sink, a mirror and hand towels in front by the door. Sticky flypaper hung near an overhead light, saturated with dozens of dead insects. A small cracked window over the toilet allowed fresh air and flies to pass freely.

  Her face seemed irregularly shaped in the mirror. She moved side to side, surveying the extent of the rash. She reached up and poked the mirror. Her hand went through it and touched the face on the other side.

  Eee...what’s happening? She tried yelling for help, but only her lips moved. She marveled at the face in the mirror. She could touch it. Not her face, but someone who looked like her, almost a twin.

  “Who are you?” she said, her mouth suddenly making sounds.

  “Raaachel,” the face in the mirror responded slowly.

  “Rachel? Rachel who?”

  “Raaachel,” the face said again, pointing back at her.

  “I’m Katie, not Rachel.” Kottle said.

  Oh, my God, a startling awareness rushed up from her memory. My twin sister, Rachel, died. She died and I never got to know her. Tears streaked down her cheeks. The face in the mirror suddenly lunged forward with mouth open, biting down on her index finger. Kottle tried pulling her hand from inside the mirror. It was stuck. The face was biting her. She felt excruciating pain and shouted, “Help me, someone! Dear, God, Rachel has my finger. She’s going to bite it off!”

  Porter heard the cry for help and darted toward the restroom. Sanguini and Dingman, exchanging concerned glances, followed.

  “Katie, you okay? Katie, I’m coming in,” Porter said, pounding on the door.

  “Help me, she’s got my finger. It hurts,” she cried.

  Porter grabbed the door handle and slammed his body against the door breaking the lock. He peaked in, not knowing what to expect.

  “Oh, Jesus, Katie, your hand’s stuck in the broken mirror,” he said. Sanguini and Dingman stood behind offering to help. The women tending the bar joined them.

  Katie looked at them in horror, her face bright red with blood-shot eyes. Her right hand was completely out of sight, stuffed in a cracked portion of the mirror. Porter gently lifted the mirror forward looking behind it. Her hand extended into a hole in the wall behind the mirror. Porter gently tugged on her hand in front of the mirror and her hand retracted from the wall through the mirror. Her index finger was bleeding. Porter put his hand gently inside the hole in the wall.

  “There’s a sharp nail in there. Hope you had your Tetanus shots. What were you trying to do?”

  “She had my hand in her mouth,” Kottle whimpered.

  “Who?” Dingman asked.

  “Rachel, my dead twin sister.”

  “Make way, guys; time for a woman’s touch,” the woman from the bar said, pushing Sanguini and Dingman aside. “Give us a few minutes alone; she’ll be okay.” She forced Porter out and held Kottle’s hand under cold water. “You all right, honey?” She motioned for Kottle to sit on the covered toilet seat, then closed the bathroom door.

  Chapter 28

  Her dream-induced eye movement slowed as Mandi Hermanski gasped, sucking air into her lungs.

  “She’s coming around. Where’s the doctor?” Jack Hermanski jumped up from a straddled chair knocking it over. He stumbled forward, falling on top of his waking wife.

  A nurse, adjusting a fresh bag of plasma, yelped helplessly.

  “Crap, this is not good,” Jack said, pushing off the bed.

  Mandi’s eyes popped open.

  “What are you doing? Get off of me you pervert,” she said, raising her arms and shoving Jack away.

  “Dr. Grace!” the nurse shouted, bolting toward the door.

  “You…okay? It’s me, Jack.”

  “Where am I? This...this looks like a hospital room. What are you doing to me?” Mandi said, yanking the tube and needle from a bulging-blue vein in her left arm.<
br />
  “No, wait for the doctor. I found you passed-out on the floor in the living room. You...ah, you...I’ll explain later. Relax, you’re safe here. Don’t fight this.”

  The doctor entered the room and immediately reached out for Mandi’s arm to reattach the needle and plastic hose.

  “No way, asshole. You’re not going to stick any needles in me again,” Mandi said, holding the covers over her arms. Her pupils widened, her eyes unfocused. “The wall is melting, look...melting.” Her eyelids closed as her body relaxed.

  “Hmm, flashbacks. I’ve seen this look before in clinics. She’s tripping. I guess I should ask you; has your wife ever experimented in the past?”

  “Experimented? With drugs?”

  The doctor nodded as he inserted a syringe into the reattached hose, releasing a dose of unspecified medicine.

  “Maybe a drinking binge once a year or so, but no drugs. We did get married late—in our thirties and she’s never talked much about her past life: divorced, no children, bad first marriage. He abused her physically, so she does have issues.”

  “Explains her combative nature, I suppose. She’s sleeping it off now. I gave her a sedative to disrupt the dopamine rush she’s feeling from whatever triggered this behavior. I must warn you; she’s going to come down hard from this, and possibly live with a nasty migraine for several days. The vessels around her pupils are inflamed indicating an infection in her eyes or perhaps in her brain. There’s definitely more going on here than a simple drug overdose. I got a call back from the National Disease Control Center, and they are willing to foot the bill for the blood tests I told you about earlier. We’ll find the underlying cause of this by the end of the day. I have a lab tech in Detroit working on it as we speak. They had to call in a specialist from the University of Michigan to verify the results.”

  Chapter 29

  Porter held Kottle close in the rear seat of Bob Sanguini’s Cadillac as it approached the driveway to the emergency entrance of the West Branch Memorial Hospital. Dingman glanced back from the front seat, showing honest concern.

  Kottle stared at Porter’s shoes, fixated on the coiled shoestrings.

  “You fix-tie your shoes, don’t you? Ken does too, you know. Barbie doesn’t like it,” she said, squeezing her right napkin-covered finger with her left hand.

  Dingman’s eyebrows lifted briefly. Porter shrugged.

  “My dear, you had quite a fright. We will take care of your finger. No worries, eh?”

  “Rachel wants to see Lindsey. You said we could see Lindsey,” she said, looking up at Dingman.

  He reached out and patted her arm.

  Poke and jab, she thought. Poke and jab, now.

  “Argh, my eyes. Jesus,” Dingman said, cupping his hands over his face.

  “What are you doing? Where’s Lindsey? Mother is calling, I need air—can’t breathe,” she said, pressing the window switch. She struggled from Porter’s grasp, lunging her head out the lowering window.

  “Stop! Stop the car, she’s trying to jump out,” Porter shouted.

  Sanguini braked violently as Dingman reached for Kottle’s arm from the front seat. She pulled away from his grip and ejected through the window opening.

  “Nooo. This can’t be happening,” Porter said, jerking forward.

  “Ugh, that hurt.” The forced braking sent Dingman’s head against the windshield.

  “Sorry. Damn, I’m sorry,” Sanguini apologized.

  “Katie, Katie...God, Katie,” Porter said, as he exited the vehicle and ran around the car to help her. She lay resting on the icy pavement in a tight fetal position.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kottle’s large brown eyes stared forward as the nurse wheeled her into an observation room. She leaned sideways in the chair, pulling her knees up. Dirt and dried blood spotted her skirt and blouse. Her right forefinger, covered with a makeshift bandage, dangled from the right side of the chair rubbing against the rotating wheel.

  “Careful, my dear, you might get caught in a spoke,” Dingman said, rushing up to the wheelchair to hold Katie’s right hand.

  Porter acted flustered and in shock. He tried to explain to the front-desk nurse exactly what happened. Sanguini assisted with comments and useless banter. The nurse typed on a computer keyboard as the men talked, then abruptly stopped.

  “Okay, okay, tell the rest to the doctor. Please take a seat in the waiting room. If he needs more information, he’ll come get you.”

  “Can’t I...er, we, go in there with her. You let Mr. Dingman go in there.”

  “Sorry, as the father, he’s allowed. You’ll have to wait until the doctor gives his permission.”

  Porter glanced at Sanguini and smirked. Dingman has it under control, he thought.

  “Look and learn,” Sanguini whispered as they walked into the waiting room. Porter nodded.

  Chapter 30

  “Here’s the latest sales report,” Nora Lacarter said, throwing an inch-thick stack of paper on George Montagno’s office desk.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?” he said, looking up.

  “Jack said to give it to you; he had an emergency at home. I’m done working, and eating lunch now,” the plump secretary said, turning away.

  “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,” Montagno said, shoving the report aside. “How the hell will I explain this?” he mumbled, mulling over a column of numbers in the printed ledger on his desk.

  “You up for a quick bite? It’s past two already. Where’s Jack? What the hell did you say to Nora? Why are you so damn mean to her?” Dillon Lacarter said.

  “Brought lunch from home,” Montagno said, holding up a paper bag. “I don’t have a clue what’s going on, and your useless sister doesn’t either—something about Jack having an emergency at home.”

  “You okay? Dizzy spells again? Your face is red.”

  “Probably my blood pressure; I can’t make these numbers add up.”

  “You’re spending too much time worrying about the numbers; why not make a ledger correction into the computer and move on. I bet Jack would agree with me,” Lacarter said, frowning.

  “I could do a write-off, but I’m seeing weird patterns in our cash flow. Ever since the deer fell on me, I’ve seen these patterns,” Montagno said, shaking his head.

  “I’m talking to Jack. You’re wasting everyone’s time. We should be counting inventory, not farting around with the ledger.”

  “What’s your problem? Go away and let me finish,” Montagno said and continued searching for answers as he opened his paper lunch bag. He retrieved a chopped-meat sandwich covered with oozing mayonnaise. It dripped onto the ledger. Lacarter shook his head and left.

  “Shit.” Montagno wiped the white goop with a napkin. It quickly dispersed into the paper leaving oily marks and diffused print. I’ll have to reprint it. He shoved the ledger to one side and concentrated on lunch.

  ~ ~ ~

  It is up there. Run, run, Montagno thought. He nudged the grazing doe next to him. She looked up, ears perked. He nudged her again as the flick of an arrow reached his ears. Ugh, it hurts. Run, run. Montagno felt his legs fold as his body fell sideways. His head slammed the ground, revealing a wooden stalk protruding skyward from his neck. His tongue slowly extended out his mouth as shock overcame the pain.

  Get up. Run, run, he thought, hearing strange sounds. He raised his head to see a human figure walking toward him. A doe stood by to defend him. Run, run, he tried to yell, but no words formed inside his damaged neck.

  Thump. Another wooden stalk protruded his neck. Darkness overtook his eyes. He lay motionless on cold wet leaves.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Dillon!” Nora shouted as she entered Montagno’s office. “My God, Dillon, come here. George has something sticking out of his neck. He’s bleeding.”

  “What? What’s all the yelling about?” Dillon Lacarter said, entering the office. “Oh shit.”

  “Maybe we should leave him and get the hell out of here before
someone thinks we did it.”

  Nora stood motionless, as Dillon stepped closer to the upper torso lying on the desk.

  Montagno’s head lay cocked left, tongue out and eyes bulging. His right arm stretched away from his body. His left clutched objects sticking vertically into his neck. Dillon gently tugged his left hand away, revealing two yellow pencils. One penetrated in about two inches near the spine; the other penetrated forward into his larynx.

  “He’s still alive,” Dillon said. “We can’t just leave him here, we need to—”

  “Hello, anyone here to sign for this?” a mail carrier said at the front desk. He walked back to Montagno’s office. “Anyone here? I...oh, my God, what happened? Call the police.”

  Nora glanced at Dillon for confirmation, then picked up the desk phone and dialed. “We’ve got an emergency. A man just attempted suicide,” she said and gave directions to the company office. “They’re on their way.”

  “He’s not dead,” Dillon said, feeling a pulse. “I’ll take these pencils out. Maybe he can breathe then.

  “No, don’t. If you do, you might rupture a blood vessel and make it worse. Leave the pencils alone. They teach us that in first aide,” the mail carrier said.

  Dillon relaxed his grip on the pencils and backed away. “We’ll take care of this; you can probably go.”

  “You sure? I don’t feel right, leaving. He might need help.”

  Sirens grew louder and stopped.

  “Shit,” Dillon said, glancing at Nora. “Go let them in.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “What’s this?” a burly police officer asked, picking up a paper bag from the floor next to Montagno’s desk chair. Two medics carefully carried Montagno’s unresponsive body, strapped to a portable gurney, out the office door. The pencils remained intact and covered by a white bandage.

  “His lunch. We talked about it around noon. He brown-bagged lunch, so I stepped out for an hour. When I got back, we found him like this. Actually Nora found him.”

  “Anyone in the building from noon ‘til now who might have heard or seen something?”

  “Just Nora, she was out there,” Dillon said, pointing out the doorway to the reception desk.